


The Reasonable Doubt 'verse

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Fic, First Time, M/M, Multi, Podfic Available, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First time set in the first half of season 1. Originally posted in 19 parts to livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reasonable Doubt 'verse

**Author's Note:**

> Humungous and heartfelt thanks to Sage for beta.
> 
> Now also [available as a podbook](http://community.livejournal.com/amplificathon/592827.html) read by twilight_angel.

## Corkscrew

 

Since he's been out, the only person Neal's been straight with is June, and only because she saw through him in less than a minute. He was going to con her, of course—had already got her number, calculated the odds and started his pitch—he couldn't help himself. But her open smile and the way her hand lingered on the stack of Byron's suits touched him deeply.

She was an older, wiser Kate. So he told her everything.

They stayed up till one-thirty, sitting at her Edwardian dining table, drinking and telling more and more outrageous tales. After half a bottle of burgundy, the story of Kate spilled out. Nearly four years sober had made a lightweight of him.

Afterwards, June looked at him shrewdly and said, "You never loved her. Not really."

Her certainty took him aback. "What makes you say that?"

"You think too highly of yourself." She drained the bottle into her Waterford glass and took a sip. "Kate's a romantic fiction and you're playing the role of hero. Believe me—Byron was the same."

Neal opened his mouth to object, to lash out, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Understandable, of course, with your dashing good looks." She winked and patted his hand. "You'll be all right. This Peter Burke will keep you busy. I'm going to bed."

They hadn't discussed the guest room. They hadn't needed to.

"Maria will bring you coffee in the morning."

He nodded stiffly. "Good night."

Neal went upstairs. June's "closet" was bigger than most New York apartments—it even had a refrigerator. It was lined with bookshelves and decorated in a completely different style from the rest of the house. The view took his breath away.

Not only that, but Byron's wardrobe was both classic and extensive, and the bed, no doubt grudgingly made up by Maria, was dressed in sheer Schweitzer cotton. The contrast with prison couldn't be more stark. Neal laughed to himself in sheer delight.

Then he lay down, placed his hat on his chest and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Kate, telling himself the story.

 

* * *

 

Peter thinks Neal's a romantic—that's been obvious all along—and Neal knows how to play that role. It's second nature. More importantly, he can use it: layer carefree over heartbroken, and hide what's underneath.

When Peter asks about the bottle, Neal tells him: the cheap wine, the promise of a better tomorrow. It's a familiar enough tale that Neal sometimes forgets it's a lie.

But later that night, he makes himself remember the truth: that he and Kate were never content with cheap wine and promises. From day one, they wanted only the best. The Bordeaux—and a dozen bottles like it—were appropriated from the private collection of an oil company CEO, Max Hoffsted, and never reported missing for fear of repercussions from his wife. It had been an easy scam: Kate had a face people believed in and everyone liked Neal. Doors opened, handshakes were exchanged and Janine Carlson, the art dealer, had introduced them to Max as her personal friends.

Whatever Peter might believe, Kate isn't an ingénue, and Neal misses her more as a partner in crime than as a lover. For love, he can look closer to home. If he's completely honest with himself, he's already started.

 

* * *

 

## Planting Seeds

 

If Kate was the romantic fiction that got Neal out of prison and into Peter's work life, then Elizabeth was the key to Peter's private life.

"You must be Neal." She answered the door with a fountain pen in one hand, notebook folded open, and a golden Labrador nuzzling her knees, and in that instant Neal wanted into this family more than he'd ever wanted anything.

He played cool. "How'd you guess?"

"Your reputation precedes you. Not to mention—" She looked pointedly at the slight bulge at his ankle, then waved him inside. Beautiful. Fearless. "Coffee?"

"Please." He followed her to the kitchen and watched her pour. The coffee wasn't a patch on June's, but Neal was certainly willing to make small concessions for the greater gain. "So," he said, accepting the cup. "What do you want to know?"

Her eyes widened. "You came here," she reminded him.

He gave her a wicked grin. "Don't tell me you're not curious. I'll trade secrets with you."

"All right." She smiled back, amused, and took him into the living room. "Are you going to tell me the truth or spin me a line?"

"I'll be as honest as I can." Neal liked her already.

Elizabeth sat on the couch and called the dog over. "Hey, Satchmo. This is Neal." She sipped her coffee and gazed into the middle distance while she thought what to ask, then looked up and met his eye. "Why Peter?"

The bluntness of her question threw him, hitting home, but he recovered quickly. "He caught me," said Neal simply. "No one ever came close before. There's something powerful about being anticipated. Something personal." He let his voice drop. "It's like a dance."

She didn't disappoint. Laughed at him without shadow or doubt, so unsurprised that Neal started to wonder if Peter, too, would react to such revelations with equanimity and amusement.

As if she was one step ahead, she leaned in a little. "What about Kate?"

"What about Kate?" Neal countered blandly.

"Do you love her? Are you going to find her? If you leave, you know Peter will track you down again."

But there, even in the mischievous questions, a note of sympathy. God, Elizabeth was almost too good to be true.

Luckily, Neal was used to having things go his way. He bent his head confidentially. "I do love Kate." He rubbed the dog's soft fur for a moment, before he added, "Just not exclusively."

A phone rang upstairs. They both ignored it.

"So what are you—"

He help up his hands, laughing. "My turn!"

She stopped, chagrined, then gave him a look. "Okay."

"Okay," he said, and brought his coffee cup nearly to his lips. "Tell me this. Is Peter really as straight—" He broke off to take a sip. "—strait-laced as he seems?"

If she noticed the double entendre, she gave no sign. She looked down into her cup, her dimples fading. "He didn't used to be. Before we got together, he broke half a dozen regulations putting me under surveillance. But lately—" She shook her head, her mouth twisting wryly.

"Maybe I can shake things up." Neal touched her arm, crossing the distance, and she pulled away, laughing.

"He was right about you!"

Footsteps sounded on the stair, and Neal pulled the Spanish bond out of its envelope and placed it on the coffee table, all while shooting Elizabeth a silent query.

"Nothing but trouble," she explained warmly. It felt like approval, like permission.

 

* * *

 

  
The next afternoon he helped Peter decorate the roof. They strung lights, arranged deck chairs and set coal in the brazier ready to light.

Peter was brimming with residual good humor from the bust. Neal was on edge, not sure if he'd earned his freedom. It was up to the FBI now: they could still lock him away again. The ankle bracelet weighed heavy.

"Tell me something," Neal said, stopping work to watch Peter hook up the stereo. He was crouched, that same old suit bunched around his shoulders.

"What?" Peter barely looked up. So casual. They'd gone from adversaries to allies in the space of only—

Oh, who was Neal kidding? They'd never been adversaries. It had all been a game, a dance. And like he'd told Elizabeth, nothing was more exhilarating than dancing with someone who matched your skills. "Did you keep the cards?"

"What cards?" Peter looked up then, forehead creased.

Neal handed him the CD and watched the drawer slide in and out. "The birthday cards I sent you."

"Of course." Peter stood up, stretched out his legs. "They're evidence of your disturbed mind." He smiled, no judgment in his voice, just fact. "I always keep evidence."

"Okay." Neal switched on the stereo and reached past Peter to press play. Calypso music spilled out. "So you kept them at work, in my official file?"

Peter stilled, suddenly wary. Neal could see the lie form. "Yeah. Of course."

Neal stepped in, put one hand on Peter's waist, caught his other hand and twirled him, leading him in a quick rumba for two beats, three, four—and Peter shuffled along with it, perhaps too surprised to resist, or perhaps willing. It was too soon, far too soon to be sure.

But Neal had always been impatient. He brought them to a halt, almost an embrace.

"Just checking," he murmured, leaning in. He brushed Peter's lips with his own.

It was a fleeting gesture, designed to be easily dismissed, laughed off, but Peter's startled exclamation was as clumsy as the monitor on Neal's ankle. He snatched his hand away and stared at Neal for a long moment, a roulette wheel of emotions flickering across his face: shock, denial, a glimpse of anger, excitement, desire. Finally he barked a laugh. "You really don't like rules, do you?"

Ah, denial then. That would do for now.

Neal shrugged and swiped his hat from one of the deck chairs, flipped it onto his head. "I never met a rule I didn't break."

"Yeah, well, I'm married to a beautiful woman and I'm officially responsible for you, so—" Peter swallowed. "—can the hijinks."

Neal looked around the roof, all dressed up for Peter and Elizabeth's anniversary. One day it would be the three of them. He was counting on it.

"Sorry," he lied. "Okay, well, guess I should make myself scarce." He started for the door. He had more reading to do. There was always more to learn.

"Neal." Peter's voice reached out and stopped him. "Thanks."

Neal pivoted.

Peter looked awkward as only he could. "For this." His wave encompassed the roof, the decorations, the city. "Thank you."

Neal grinned and swept his hat off in a gallant bow. "Any time," he said, as lightly as he could. "I mean it."

 

* * *

 

## Evidence

 

**1.**

Peter's trying his best not to trust Neal. He's ninety-eight percent sure Neal's conning him, that this whole FBI consultant arrangement is part of a wider scam—probably something to do with Kate and an improbably large sum of money, though Peter doesn't have a clue yet how the pieces fit together.

That's okay. There's plenty of time. What's important for now is that he keeps his guard up, keeps Neal at arm's length.

Only it's not that easy. Neal has a way about him—gives every indication he's wearing his heart on his sleeve. And his candor is insidious and addictive. "I signed my forgeries," he says simply—sitting on Peter's couch with Peter's wife, petting Peter's dog—and bam! Peter's learned more about the criminal mind in thirty seconds than he did in the last six months. (He's assumed careful, methodical and disciplined, because that's what it takes to create a perfect counterfeit and to not get caught, and because that's what Peter understands. He'd overlooked _impulsive_.)

And the disarming thing about Neal _is_ his impulsiveness. It's ridiculous and impractical and utterly charming, and Peter knows he's skating on thin ice by letting things get personal. If only he could find the brakes.

 

**2.**

He thinks about Neal far too often.

It's not like four years ago when he was tracking him, trying to anticipate him. This isn't logical analysis. This isn't work.

Peter packs his toothbrush and shaving gear for Belize, and thinks about Neal growing a beard in prison, and how his jaw always looks so damned smooth now he's out. Does he use a blade?

On the plane, there's a smiling, black-haired flight attendant.

Elizabeth buys a fine gold anklet and wears it at the beach, where sunlight glints off it.

Every cup of imperfect coffee.

Every time Elizabeth kisses him.

 

**3\. **

Neal kissed him. Peter knows it was just a teasing gesture, Neal needling him, trying to provoke a response. That doesn't explain why he can still feel it.

It doesn't explain why all his objections were circumstantial: Elizabeth, Peter's responsibilities. Not "I'm a heterosexual man." Not "I'm not interested."

Peter had never kissed a man before. Never thought about it. Now he looks around at the other tourists, the locals, and he wonders—are any of them gay? (Some must be, statistically speaking.) Are any of them in love?

 

**4\. **

In a jewelry store near their hotel, Elizabeth finds an improbable gold fob watch. She holds it up, laughing. "You should get this for Neal."

Peter feels his face heat. "Why?"

He takes the watch and examines it. It's heavy, old-fashioned, ridiculous.

"He likes playing dress-up." Her words are casual, but her eyes are sharp. She suspects.

Peter knows he should tell her, but he can't. Not here. He falls back on a familiar thought. "He looks like a cartoon."

"Exactly." Elizabeth grins, and gives the watch back to the jeweler.

 

**5.**

When they get back, it gets worse. Peter greets each new case with enthusiasm now—Neal's turning the whole thing into a game (for which, sometimes, the stakes are life and death). Before, Peter had been getting stale, frustrated with the unimaginative agents who worked for him.

Now he has a surfeit of imagination, not to mention a steady supply of recklessness, bravado and commitment, in the form of Neal. It sends crazy ideas sparking through Peter's brain, too. Helps him think outside the lines. Sure, why not throw a party full of models?

He can feel himself changing, re-learning spontaneity and triumph.

And he's grateful for it. He wants to give Neal anything he asks for. Cuban cigar, no problem. Prison security tape, why not? Leeway. The rules start to bend and twist, and the only way Peter can fight that is by withholding, doling out favors as rewards as though Neal's a trained dog.

It feels mean, and with Neal sitting next to him in a cab, hat on his knee and an amusing anecdote on his lips, or when they're sitting in the office eating pastrami on rye and combing through bank accounts and flight schedules, figuring out their next move to catch their prey, or when Neal chivalrously holds the door for him or leans in and dusts lint off Peter's shoulder like they're friends. Like they're more than friends. All the time, over and over, Peter has to remind himself that Neal got himself into this mess by _breaking the law_. It wasn't something that happened to him, and it's not Peter's job to sort it out.

Above all Peter has to remember to keep his guard up, precisely because he can feel it slipping. Because there's every chance he's being conned, and because as the days pass, he has more and more to lose.

 

* * *

 

## Weighing the Odds (seven, plus one for luck)

 

**1\. **

After work on Monday, Elizabeth and her neighbor Bethany took Satchmo out for a run. Bethany told Elizabeth all about her son's new girlfriend ("She's seventeen and she has a tattoo on her ass! She makes me feel _old_.") and Elizabeth told Bethany all about Neal.

Well, some about Neal—the easy parts, like how he flirted with everyone, was outrageously pretty and how Elizabeth had been entertaining some increasingly elaborate fantasies that she had absolutely no intention of acting upon.

The electric current that hummed in the air between Peter and Neal whenever they were in the same room—she kept that part to herself.

 

**2\. **

Elizabeth had led a sheltered life: she had three boyfriends in college (one gay, but they broke up as soon as she found that out), and met Peter shortly after graduation. He was older than the other men she'd dated and not as obviously handsome, but she liked that about him. And he knew everything. Any question she asked him, he supplied the answer effortlessly. His confidence, his sincerity, his _attention_ took her breath away.

And sure, that was twelve years ago now, and these days Peter's attention was usually focused elsewhere, but El was happy with what she had. She loved her life. She loved her marriage and her dog, and she loved her job even when it drove her crazy. If she was less than thrilled about long lonely evenings while Peter worked late, well, the shoe was just as often on the other foot—organizing that charity auction at MoMA last month had kept her out till midnight for a week.

The point was, El and Peter were the perfect match. It made no sense to take risks with that. But when she looked at Neal Caffrey, El saw adventure and allure and magic, and sometimes—

Maybe sometimes it was worth taking a risk.

Maybe.

 

**3\. **

"What does he do on the weekends?" El asked, rearranging the shopping cart to make sure the juice bottles weren't squashing the fresh produce.

Peter was weighing up the cereal options. "Neal? I don't know. He probably spends them planning elaborate heists and fraternizing with his criminal friends."

She smacked him on the shoulder and reached past him for the honey nut shredded wheat. "I mean it. You don't think he's lonely?"

"Neal? No way." Peter picked Cap'n Crunch and dumped it on top of the mushrooms. When he turned away, she swapped out the kids' cereal for All-Bran. He didn't notice. "He's got more friends than Dorothy."

El blinked, but let that pass. "He's your partner. If he's going to be working at your side, I want to get to know him."

"Honey, he's a felon." Peter stopped the cart and looked at her, his lips widening into a smile. "Oh, you've fallen for the Caffrey charm, haven't you? Welcome to my life."

He pushed the cart ahead, so missed seeing her mouth fall open.

"Everywhere I turn, women are falling over themselves to fall all over him." He shook his head, amused. "All he has to do is stand still and they come running. But I can't believe you fell for it. I thought you were smarter than that." He gave her a teasing grin.

"I am," she lied. "I just think we can afford to be generous. Besides, he's fun to have around." She dug her elbow into Peter's side. "He certainly keeps you on your toes."

"Oh yes, he does that." Peter took a packet of Sweet'n'Low from the shelf and tossed it into the cart. "You do realize that he's a con artist. Charm is part of his job description."

She shrugged airily. "I think anyone can use a little more charm in their life, don't you?"

Peter shook his head again, his smile turning wry. "Okay, fine. He can come over and case the joint—again. It's not like we have any antiques he'd be interested in. But I want it noted for the record that I have a bad feeling about this."

She patted his shoulder. "Okay, honey. Noted."

 

**4\. **

Peter's changing, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. He gets a light in his eye when he talks about work. He's relaxed, happier, more willing to indulge in romantic moments. He sings in the shower, kisses her in the kitchen. When they make love, he looks into her eyes, and she can feel it—all that attention she used to crave. It's giddying.

Neal isn't taking anything away from Elizabeth. He's giving her back the man she married.

 

**5.**

Peter brought him home for brunch on the following Saturday. Neal came bearing yellow daffodils, a bottle of French Champagne and a chew toy—gifts for the whole family. El greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, without forethought or planning, and Satchmo came running for a scratch behind the ear.

"Oh my God," said Peter drily. "You've even got my dog under your spell."

Neal grinned and twirled his hat, and like magic, a plain Saturday brunch was transformed into a party.

Peter made Eggs Florentine while Neal whipped up hollandaise without looking at a recipe, stepping around Peter easily as if they'd choreographed it in advance.

El sat at the breakfast bar, reading out headlines from the New York Times and watching them with pleasure.

As they ate to the sounds of Nina Simone and Billie Holiday, Neal snuck treats to Satchmo under the table ("Yeah, and you can pay his vet bills when he has to go on cholesterol medication, too," said Peter, pointing his fork at him) and regaled them with tall tales from his past. "Oh, 2004—Kate and I spent that summer in Paris. It was very romantic. We were seeing a painter, Jacques Dupres." What a Little Moonlight Can Do swirled to a halt, leaving the room still and quiet.

"Seeing?" said El, into the silence.

He smiled nostalgically. "Dating."

Peter choked on his coffee.

 

**6.**

Peter stacked the dishwasher while El gave Neal a tour of the garden, showing off her roses. Satchmo trailed around after them, chew toy in his mouth, worshipping the ground Neal walked on.

"You've got Peter well-trained," said Neal, glancing at the kitchen window.

She laughed. "He can cook too: Spaghetti Bolognese, Moroccan Lamb, Szechuan Chicken. One meal from each continent."

Neal held up his hands. "Hey, I don't need the sales pitch. I'm sold. You're a lucky woman, and he is a very lucky man." His eyes were warm and personal. His smile, wistful. No presumption.

In the back of her head, she heard Peter's warnings, but she brushed them aside. Life was too short to keep playing safe—and really, how much harm could a little flirting do? She grinned up at Neal, returning the look.

 

**7.**

"So, should I be worried?" Peter slid into bed beside her and pulled her close. "Or does your heart still belong to me only."

"He's a boy," El told him. "A very charming, very handsome, completely untrustworthy boy."

Peter smiled, proudly. "You really are the smartest woman in New York. I had my suspicions."

"He's also a lot of fun," she said, letting her hand settle on Peter's hip, thumb stroking across his skin, feeling him get hard. "I had a good time today."

"Yeah, well. Don't get too attached." Peter kissed her shoulder. "There's no saying how long he'll be around."

"You think he'll end up back in prison?" El pushed him away, looked at him, startled.

"Undoubtedly, one way or the other." He grimaced. "Either he'll go chasing after Kate and I'll have to bring him back, or he'll come face to face with a con he can't resist."

"But he's played by the rules so far, right?" El snuggled up against Peter.

"Because the rules are to his advantage. When it comes to Neal Caffrey, we have to remember that there's always a bigger picture. And I don't know what that is yet. I don't know what he wants."

El tilted her head on the pillow and smiled slyly. "I think it's pretty obvious what he wants."

A flash of guilt crossed Peter's face, flickering like a shadow. Interesting, thought El, surprised to find she wasn't surprised. And as Peter moved down her body, loving her with his hands and mouth, she closed her eyes and imagined both of them touching her, tasting her, all of them moving together. Neal's eyes dark with arousal, his lips red.

 

**+1.**

The following Sunday, in the car on the way home from her mother's house, Elizabeth finally said what she'd been thinking all week. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like, if you could be sure of Neal?"

Peter scowled at the busy road ahead of them. "When exactly did Neal Caffrey become the third person in our marriage?"

El shot him a wide-eyed innocent look. "I'm just sayin'."

But Peter's humor didn't clear like it usually did. "Yeah, I've wondered. What it would be like to trust Neal. But that's a fairytale, El. That's not who he is."

"I know."

Peter pulled off the freeway and drove too fast through the suburbs, and El sat back and watched him. Peter wouldn't risk his job, his marriage, his reputation on a roll of the dice. He wasn't wired that way. And El loved that about him, loved how smart he was. She did.

That didn't stop a girl from dreaming.

 

* * *

 

## In the Absence of Proof

 

"Peter, I've got it! This way!"

Peter's shoes skidded on the polished marble floor, and he hurtled into the elevator so fast that he slammed into the back wall. Two shots rang out as the doors slid shut, but they'd made it. Neal hit the button for the penthouse, getting them and the painting as far from the gunshots as possible, and the car moved smoothly into the sky.

Peter called Cruz. "This is Burke. Lachlan's in the lobby with two men. They're armed."

"On it," she said. "Did you get the Magritte?"

Peter looked at Neal, who was examining the forged Picasso—painted by Magritte during his Vache Period and worth a small fortune in its own right. "Yeah, it's safe."

He hung up. Three seconds later, the elevator went dark and jerked to a halt. Dim emergency lighting came on. "You've got to be kidding me," said Peter. He hammered uselessly on the elevator buttons, and then hit redial. "The elevator's stopped. What's going on?"

He angled his phone so Neal could hear Cruz's reply. "The whole block's out," she said. "Even the street lights. Must be a brown-out."

Peter sighed. "Okay, well, we'll be fine. You just make sure Lachlan and his associates don't get away." He disconnected again and looked around. "Did you do this? Did you make the elevator stop?"

Neal had propped the painting against one side wall of the elevator and was sitting on the floor against the other, contemplating it. He looked up, frowning. "You think I took out the whole block? How—using the power of my mind?"

"Oh, don't pretend you couldn't have arranged it. You and your little friend—" Peter moved the painting to the back wall and sat down in its place, ignoring the twinge in his lower back. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat on the floor.

Neal was watching him now, studying him with the same concentration he'd given the Magritte.

Peter shifted, straightened his tie, smoothed his hair. "What?"

"Nothing." But Neal's gaze didn't waver.

"_What?_"

"What would it take to make you trust me?" On the surface, the question was almost playful. Almost.

Peter met his eye, looked away, down at the tracking bracelet. "I don't know. I don't think that's possible."

"Oh, come on." Neal's hands lay folded in his lap, still for once. "There must be something."

"I know you too well to trust you." It was supposed to be light-hearted, a joke, but it rang with sincerity.

Neal winced. "Ouch."

He looked sufficiently pained that Peter sighed and reconsidered. "Twenty years of straight-up partnership. No scams, no lies," he said, finally. A test of time was the only way to really be sure; anything self-sacrificing Neal did in the short term could be a cover for a wider scam.

Neal took off his hat and turned it in his hands. "It's that bad, huh?"

His foot nudged against Peter's, seemingly accidentally.

"Like I said, I know you." Peter leaned his head back and closed his eyes, suddenly tired of pretending. They were both intelligent, rational adults. Neal was a man of the world. Surely they could talk about whatever was going on between them without the sky falling. "Even if we did—" Peter said, quietly. "Even if we wanted to do whatever it is you're suggesting, we couldn't."

The silence stretched too long. Peter had to look.

Neal was watching him. Open, vulnerable, wanting. Peter had no idea if it was an act.

"Why not?" asked Neal. "Is it Elizabeth?"

"Not just her." Peter swallowed, reluctant to voice the objections—once they were laid out, they couldn't be ignored. There'd be no excuses. But he'd been going over and over this in his head for weeks, and the words spilled out of their own accord. "Because you're my responsibility," he said. "Because it would break about a thousand regulations and codes of conduct. Because if it all went south, you'd have to go back to prison, and that—" He shook his head. "No experiment can survive that kind of pressure."

Neal's lips were a thin line. He dropped the hat on the floor, pulled his knees up and leaned forward. "Forget twenty. How about four?"

"Neal—" Peter was in no position to negotiate this, even if he wanted to.

"No, listen." Neal's eyes were bright with determination. "Four years. That's how long you own me. That's how long I've got to earn your trust."

Peter leaned forward too, hardly aware he was mirroring him. "Are you serious? There's no way you'll go straight for four years. What, you're going to give up on Kate and all your other felonious friends, and play on the right side of the law? Not a chance."

"Don't underestimate me," said Neal. The elevator jolted and started up again. The main light came back on. Neal got to his feet in one easy, fluid motion and gave Peter a hand up, drawing him into his personal space. Peter breathed him in, expensive cologne and warm skin, allowing himself this one moment of weakness before he put his guard back up.

When Neal bent his head forward and murmured in Peter's ear, his voice sent a flush down Peter's spine. "I can do anything I put my mind to," he said, "with the right incentive."

Peter stepped back and straightened his shoulders, forcing himself back into his role. He was a professional. He was _sane_. He picked up the Magritte and turned to face the elevator doors as they opened onto a shadowy, deserted reception area. "Not this," he said. "No."

 

* * *

 

## It's Not What It Looks Like (Exhibits A through F)

 

**A.**

After the Lachlan arrest and the elevator talk, Peter felt pretty good. He'd laid it out there, made his position clear. Things were as they should be, and there was no question they'd stay that way. Neal had made a token show of protest, as he was bound to do, but Peter was the one who set the rules.

He drove home, drank a glass of water, stripped off his clothes in the dark and slid into bed, where Elizabeth was already asleep.

Two hours later, his phone rang. Peter answered it in his sleep. "This is Burke." Behind him, El grumbled and burrowed her head under her pillow.

"Agent Burke?"

Peter forced his eyes open. "It's three a.m."

"Sorry to wake you, sir. It's Saul Adams from the NYPD, on security detail at the Steinway Building. I found a guy breaking in the service door. He says he knows you."

"Put him on," said Peter. The Steinway Building was where they'd captured Lachlan that evening.

There was a rustle as the phone changed hands. "Hi."

"Do I know you?"

"No."

Peter covered his eyes and wished he was asleep. "What are you doing skulking around my crime scene?"

"Believe me, I have better things I could be doing. Neal left his hat in the elevator." Oh, right. This must be the not-so-mysterious friend.

"And he couldn't retrieve it himself because of the tracker," said Peter, filling in the blanks. For a split second, he wanted to ask if Neal was okay, but it was a stupid question. This was Neal—the cat who always landed on his feet. He was probably consoling himself with Cindy the resident art student at this very moment. "Okay, fine. Give me back to Officer Adams."

More rustling. "Sir?"

"He can get the hat, and then you escort him off the premises. Okay?"

"Roger that." Adams hung up.

Peter flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling with a nagging feeling he couldn't pin down. Neal had forgotten his hat. Was that a subtle bid for attention or a true accident? Could Peter take it at face value? It was deeply frustrating not to know.

 

**B.**

Neal studied himself in the mirror. The suit was shapeless as hell, exactly right for his purposes. He smoothed down the ugly patterned tie, gave his hat one last regretful look where it lay on the sideboard and headed downstairs.

June was on her way into breakfast in her white silk housecoat as he descended. Her eyes widened comically when she saw him. "Who died?"

Neal gave her a look. "Since I'm working for the FBI, I figured I might as well dress the part."

"Why would you?" She laughed up at him. "It's hardly the Neal Caffrey we all know and love." She tucked her hand over his elbow and he led her into the dining room and sat down. "Now, tell me what's really going on," she said, as Maria poured the coffee.

Neal sighed. "Peter doesn't trust me. I need to find a way to change that."

"His opinion means a lot to you."

"It's crazy, isn't it?"

June smiled. "Neal, if Peter Burke didn't trust you, you'd still be in prison. He has a great deal of faith in you."

"Not enough," said Neal, and gave her the bare bones of the exchange in the elevator the night before. "That's the second time he's said no. I'm not sure it's worth waiting around for the third." He buttered a piece of toast and took a morose bite, trying to decide why it mattered so much. Peter wasn't even his usual type.

June raised a delicate eyebrow. "You weren't foolish enough to proposition the man outright, I hope."

"No, of course not. He just says no." And that—that was a clue. Neal frowned, getting a bead on it, and then his weariness lifted like a fog. "That's it," he said, pointing at June. "He's not saying no to me—he's saying no to himself, his own feelings. How did I miss that?" Peter had listed his objections as if they irked him as much as they did Neal. As if he'd seriously thought about succumbing to temptation, and it was only propriety and circumstances that held him back. The idea of a Peter freed from those circumstances—letting himself want—made Neal faintly giddy.

June laughed at his relief, and then sipped her coffee. "I said no to Byron four times before I finally gave in. He had nothing back then but a sharp wit and a wonderful sense of style, and I thought I wanted security."

"How did he change your mind?" asked Neal, bringing his attention back to her.

"Through persistence and an absolute conviction that he loved me." She touched the string of pearls around her neck. "In the end, he won my hand in a game of poker."

Neal grinned. "You were the stake?"

"He never knew I had the winning hand. I never told him." She gazed into the middle distance, miles away. It was a long moment before she blinked and patted Neal's arm. "All romance is a con, Neal. Surely you of all people know that. It doesn't make it any less real."

Neal covered her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "So, what do I do?"

"I'm going to give you the same advice my mother gave me when I was a thirteen, the same advice I gave Cindy," she said, her eyes dancing now. "Be yourself. Your impulsive, stylish, playful, passionate self. Sincerity isn't a suit of clothes—even the FBI knows that."

Excitement bubbled through him. Neal Caffrey was one role he could definitely pull off. "I could kiss you!" he told June. On impulse, he made good on that, bending forward and kissing her cheek. "You're an amazing woman."

"And you are an unusually charming man." She smiled indulgently. "Now run upstairs and change. That suit is an abomination."

 

**C.**

"Sorry I'm late. Catering invoice emergency," said Elizabeth, taking a seat across from Bethany and Bethany's sister Anne at Kittichai on Thompson St. "Have you ordered?"

"We were waiting for you," said Bethany, spinning her cellphone on the polished wooden tabletop. "How's it going?"

"As always, the sky is falling, the world is ending and there's no room at the inn," Elizabeth told her. "Also, I have a secret sixty-second sex survey for you guys."

Anne looked up from the lunch menu. "Oh good," she said. "Shoot."

"Can we order first? I'm starving!" Bethany was training for a half marathon and was permanently ravenous.

"Poor baby," said El. She looked in her purse. "I have breath mints. Or do you want me to go into the kitchen and fix you a starter? I'm sure the chef wouldn't mind."

Bethany smacked her lightly with the menu. "Just order, already!"

Elizabeth had spent the morning humming "What a Little Moonlight Can Do" and thinking up improbable scenarios in which she seduced Neal, or better yet, Neal seduced her and Peter. The possibilities were shockingly fun to dwell on. Of course, what she was supposed to be doing was finding and pricing possible venues for the fiftieth wedding anniversary party of a recording industry magnate. El tucked her hair behind her ear and resolved that after lunch she'd be a responsible professional adult. But first, food and gossip with friends.

The waiter came and went, and Anne sat up straight and eyed her expectantly. "So. Sex?"

El snickered at her eager expression. "You look like a meerkat. It's adorable. Okay." Her face heated, but the secret sex survey was a tradition, and she trusted them not to judge her. "I have three questions and we've got sixty seconds on the clock, starting now. One: gay sex—hot or not?"

"Boy gay or girl gay?" asked Bethany.

Anne shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They're both hot."

"Boy gay," said Elizabeth. "Man sex."

Bethany tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Hot. I think. It really depends on the boys in question."

"Oh my god," said Anne. "There's this gorgeous bicycle courier who comes to my office. He's got perfect dreadlocks. I saw him making out with one of the associates in the photocopy room." She fanned herself with her hand. "Definitely hot."

"Clock's ticking," said Bethany. "Next question."

Elizabeth licked her lips. "Question two: threesomes—are they ever a good idea?"

Bethany raised her eyebrows. "Is this about that—?"

"Shh," said El, and tapped her watch face. "Focus. We're on the clock here, baby!"

"I don't see why it couldn't be a good idea," said Anne. "I mean, it would certainly liven things up. I think you'd have to be sure you weren't going to get emotionally involved, though—it could get messy."

"Josh and I had a one-night stand with a Canadian backpacker on our honeymoon," said Bethany. "It was good, actually. It helped Josh feel like he hadn't just been sentenced to a lifetime of domesticity."

"You did not!" said Anne. "How come you never told me that?"

"I don't tell you everything," said Bethany, then pulled a face. "I wouldn't do it now, though. I'd be worried he'd compare my body to hers."

"You have a great body!" said Elizabeth, kicking her under the table. "You're gorgeous!"

"For a thirty-eight year old mother of two." Bethany shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The point is, yes, sometimes a good idea. Or at least, not a terrible one if you find someone you're both attracted to. What's question three?"

"The last question is—is it wrong to fantasize about other people during sex?" Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and tried her best to look innocent.

Anne shook her head in dismay. "Oh, honey, you mean you don't?"

"No, I do," said Elizabeth, laughing. "I just always feel guilty about it. Peter's so loyal!"

"He's the Rock of Gibraltar." Bethany grinned. "But no, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that as long as a) you don't tell him about it, and b) neither of you has telepathic powers. I mean, it's your mind! Neither the laws of physics nor of man apply."

"Time's up," said El, as the second hand swept past twelve, "and you got a perfect score: three for three. Go team!"

"So am I right? Is it Neal?" Bethany leaned forward, eyes bright.

"Who's Neal?" asked Anne.

"He works with Peter." El was reluctant to elaborate, but she'd already told Bethany that much. "He's a convicted con artist. Very attractive and completely untrustworthy and—"

"And you would hit that in a second," said Bethany.

El grinned and shook her head. "It's much too complicated and there's way too much potential for disaster. Wow, can you imagine what Peter would say? No, I'm just enjoying daydreaming about him. Very detailed daydreams."

"You've got a crush! I want to meet him!"

"If it's purely hypothetical, what's with the secret survey?" asked Anne, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, honey, you're such a lawyer!" said Elizabeth, laughing. "Hey, how's your new paralegal working out?" Which successfully diverted Anne's attention. A few minutes later their food arrived, and the conversation shifted again, leaving El with plenty to mull over between phone calls and emails that afternoon.

 

**D.**

On the surface, nothing changed after the talk in the elevator except that Peter relaxed and started to enjoy himself. Neal knew the score, and now he wouldn't misinterpret any lapses of professionalism. It was safe.

Peter still picked up Neal from June's every morning, sometimes going in for a cup of coffee, sometimes phoning from outside. Neal still came up with unconventional, borderline-legal tactics and contravened warrant law without a second thought in pursuit of whichever culprit they happened to be chasing. As they bagged one notoriously elusive criminal after another, Peter began to expect that Neal would bend the rules. Sometimes it was only Cruz's raised eyebrows and doubtful response that pulled him up short. So, on the surface nothing much changed.

Underneath all that, Peter was on one hell of a rollercoaster ride. Neal touched him constantly—a hand on the arm or the small of his back to get his attention or usher him through a doorway. Brushing fingers as he handed him a cup of coffee. Standing too close. And laughing—always laughing, either with him or at him, or at some cosmic joke Peter didn't get.

Peter lived in a continual state of awareness to the point where it was almost a relief when Neal turned his laser-bright attention on someone else, but even when he did, he usually managed to signal to Peter than his actions were for Peter's benefit.

They went over the strategy for Neal's dinner with Maria Fiametta one last time in the parking garage. "Keep her at the restaurant for at least an hour."

"Would you relax?" Neal looked calm and confident in his wine-colored shirt. "I can do this."

Cruz and Jones came out of the elevator. "Nice duds," said Cruz, looking Neal up and down.

Neal smiled. "Enjoy the show."

That might have sounded innocent to Cruz and Jones, but Peter knew better. The show was for him. He spent the whole evening with a ringside seat while Neal played a flirtatious game of cat and mouse, and heard it all as if he were there, sitting across from Neal in the restaurant, being wooed and seduced.

"Honesty is a more challenging game," said Neal when he and Fiametta returned to her apartment, and Peter felt like a gauntlet had been thrown. It was a few seconds before the buzzing in his head subsided and he could focus again on what Neal was saying.

Afterwards, after the equipment "failure" and the debrief, Peter drove Neal home. They were both quiet, the air thick with self-consciousness and an emotional heat that Peter suddenly found exhausting.

"Did you kiss her?" he blurted, unable to help himself.

Neal looked at him, wide-eyed. "What if I did?"

Peter tightened his grip on the wheel. "I don't want you pimping yourself out for the FBI. That's not part of—you don't have to do that."

"I had to get her to trust me," said Neal. Behind the teasing smile, his eyes were alert, hopeful. "You're jealous."

"I'm responsible for you," Peter reminded him.

Neal raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I'm not jealous!" Peter took a deep breath and tried to sound patient. "I just don't want you to—"

"—be with anyone else?"

"Compromise yourself," said Peter firmly, wishing he'd never opened his mouth. Why couldn't he have stuck to _Good work and good night_?

"Peter—"

But they were pulling up outside June's house, thank Christ. "Good night, Neal."

Neal sighed and got out of the car, then bent down to say, as a final parting shot, "I didn't kiss her."

Peter felt an unwelcome burst of relief. It shouldn't matter. It should not matter to him who Neal Caffrey kissed. "Okay," he said, pretending with all his might he didn't care. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Neal gave him a soft, lopsided smile and closed the car door. Peter didn't stick around to see him safely inside.

 

**E.**

Mozzie had fallen asleep on the couch again. Neal waited for the gentle snoring to start, then put down the bottle and rubbed his forehead. He didn't really care anymore, and it was a strain hiding that from someone who knew him as well as Mozzie did.

Of course, Neal still had every intention of solving the mystery and rescuing Kate from whatever mess she'd got herself into—Neal wasn't going to wholly abandon her, or their stash. But the immediate demands of the missing bible case were, well, immediate and demanding.

The gradual erosion of Peter's resistance to Neal's charms was also a distraction.

If asked, Neal didn't think he could explain why he was so intent on beguiling his way into Peter's bed. The man was a stick in the mud, always explaining that they couldn't do this or that, looking shocked when Neal took practical shortcuts. Sure, he knew Neal inside out, which was a heady attraction, but they were from completely different worlds.

"Guess that shows how much confidence they have in you," Neal had said, when Peter explained the details of the wire transfer.

"And how much I have in you," Peter had replied heavily. Those seven words had become Neal's new bottle to study, his touchstone. He turned them over and over, looking for clues until they were worn smooth and polished. They troubled him: he'd never wanted that responsibility, Peter's reputation, his career resting on Neal's shoulders. He'd wanted to tread lightly.

The fifth stage of a con was _Get what you want and get out._ But their lives—his and Peter's—were irrevocably entwined now. There was no quick exit or trapdoor escape. The tracking bracelet joined them as surely as Peter's wedding band bound him to Elizabeth.

Neal stood up, needing air. He couldn't breathe here, the bracelet weighing on his ankle, Peter on his mind. He opened the French doors silently and went out onto the roof. The sky above was dark and mysterious, endless, showing him the answer: he could run.

Tomorrow he was to cut his tracker. What if he did it, everything according to his and Peter's plan right up to the escape? What if he disappeared? He let himself picture it, freedom with the beautiful Maria—or making his own getaway. He'd either have to switch cars or use the subway to avoid the police choppers. And then San Diego, perhaps. He closed his eyes and pictured Kate, wanting to justify his flight, but there was no passion in the picture. Only obligation there too.

Still—he could run.

He lay awake for hours, plotting out escape routes and contingency plans. When he woke the next morning, he was eighty percent sure he'd just spent his last night in June's guest room. Excitement put a spring in his step.

He could feel Mozzie watching him, assessing his mood, frowning. Neal gave him a role in the retrieval of the bible to allay his suspicions, and told himself that once he'd reached safe harbor, he'd be in touch.

Mozzie would forgive him in the end. He'd done it before.

 

**F.**

Elizabeth's phone rang before she'd even sat down at her desk. The display said it was Peter. "Hey, honey," El answered. "Is everything okay?"

"Hi, Elizabeth."

That wasn't Peter's voice. "Neal?"

In the background, she could hear Peter saying, "Is that my phone? Neal, give me my phone. Now!"

"One minute," said Neal, muffled as if he were covering the receiver. "One. I need to ask your wife something."

El grinned. "What's going on?"

"What's going on is that Peter is wearing the ugliest tie I've ever seen," said Neal, sounding pained. "Is he okay?"

Trust Neal to notice the details. "It's his lucky tie," she said. "It's a big day for you guys."

"You're kidding." Neal sounded taken aback. "He doesn't believe in the healing bible, with centuries of anecdotal evidence behind it, but he has a lucky tie?"

El pressed her lips together. "What can I say? He's a complicated guy. Just go with it."

Neal sighed. "But does it have to be so _yellow_?"

His aggrieved tone made her laugh, but she sobered quickly enough. Perhaps it wasn't just chance that Neal had called her today. "Peter's got a lot riding on this today," she said, seriously. "I hope he can count on you."

Neal didn't reply, and Elizabeth felt a shiver down her spine.

"Neal?"

"You can count on me," said Neal slowly, as if the words were hard to say. But she trusted him—he hadn't lied to her so far.

"That's good to know," she said. "Now go, get to work." She hung up and pressed the phone to her chest, praying everything would turn out okay and neither of them would get hurt. And while her computer started up, she thought about Neal—using Peter's phone, noticing his tie, calling _her_. The ease with which he'd slipped into her dreams. The look on Peter's face when he said his name.

"I sure hope we can count on you," El muttered under her breath, "because I think we already do, whether we like it or not."

 

* * *

 

## Responsible Ownership

 

**1.**

The evening after they closed the healing bible case, Peter couldn't settle down. He sat on the couch with Satchmo at his feet, thinking about Fiametta pointing her gun at Neal, pulling the trigger. Neal with only the bible as a shield. Neal crumpling to the ground. If she'd aimed at his head—

Peter had worked with a lot of agents over the years, seen more than a dozen go down with bullet wounds. Two deaths. And he'd fired on his fair share of armed offenders. But Neal was, for all intents and purposes, a civilian. He wasn't trained, didn't know anything about guns, and he was Peter's responsibility.

Peter turned off the TV and stood up. They'd closed the case and no one had got hurt. It was a good result—Hughes had even muttered something approving. Peter should be enjoying the moment, should be proud.

He let Satchmo out into the backyard and stood on the back doorstep, breathing in the warm night air, trying to think about something safe. Anything. The homeless guy and his dog. Barelli showing some vestige of compassion. But it was no use—it all came back to Neal. Peter sighed and called the dog back inside, took his empty coffee mug to the kitchen.

"You okay, honey?" asked Elizabeth, looking up from her laptop as he passed behind her.

"Yeah, I think I'm just gonna—" Peter waved in the direction of the stairs. "—take a shower and call it a night."

"Okay, I'll be up in half an hour. I really need to finish this proposal, but I'm almost done." But she stood up and looped her arms around his neck, then patted his lucky tie. "You did good today. I'm proud of you."

"We got the bible back, got our woman." Peter squeezed her.

She pulled back in the circle of his embrace and looked up at him. "And Neal came through for you."

"Yes, he did." She tilted her head a little, as if she were going to say something further, so he kissed her to distract both of them. If he couldn't get his head together and stop obsessing about his caged conman, he'd have to talk to her about it eventually. He knew that. Just not now, not tonight. He wasn't ready to admit defeat yet.

 

**2.**

"You want to take him where?" Hughes sounded as if Peter's request were more ridiculous than all of Neal's crazy schemes put together. To be fair, he had a point.

"The shooting range," Peter said, and held up his hands. "I know, I know, but since Neal's been working with us, the Dutchman, the Ghost, Lachlan and now Fiametta have all pointed firearms at him. If we're going to put his life in danger—"

"First you let him out of prison, now you want to give him a gun and show him how to use it?" Hughes shook his head. "What happens when he turns it on you?"

"He won't," said Peter, definitely. Armed holdups were not Neal's style.

"Peter—"

But he stood his ground. "I know him."

Hughes gave a deep, long-suffering groan and caved. "We rigorously control access to munitions. He can learn how to handle a firearm—Christ, I can't believe I just said that—but under no circumstances does he walk the New York City streets with a loaded weapon without my specific prior approval."

"Yes, sir." Peter made his exit before Hughes could change his mind. "Thank you, sir."

Now he just had to convince Neal.

 

**3.**

Neal swanned into Peter's office at a quarter past ten and tossed a slim white gift box onto the desk. He didn't look any the worse for yesterday's events.

"Morning," said Peter, and checked his watch. "Still. Barely." He'd asked Jones to collect Neal for once, and given him strict instructions not to get waylaid, but Neal was distractible and highly persuasive. It wouldn't be fair to blame Jones for their lateness.

Neal graced a chair with his ass. "I had to show Jones the good coffee spots. And I had to get you that." He nodded at the gift box.

Peter eyed the box as if it might explode. "What is it?"

"Open it." Neal leaned back and crossed his legs, watching him. "Don't worry—it's nothing showy. It's a classic."

Peter shot him an exasperated look and lifted the lid, folded back the tissue paper inside. "It's a tie."

"It's a lucky tie," Neal explained. "So you can retire that old yellow one."

The tie was beautiful, made of muted green and gray fabric that almost shimmered, and it must have cost a fortune. Elizabeth would love it. Peter stared at it, wondering why the people in his life kept trying to smarten him up.

"You can't buy someone a lucky tie!" Despite himself, he stroked the tip of his finger across the soft, shiny fabric. "They have to have history, associations. I made my first bust when I was wearing my old one." He looked up, and he and Neal locked gazes. Peter felt his color rise. "Neal, I appreciate the gesture, but I can't accept it."

"Accept what?" asked Cruz, coming in and dumping a stack of file folders on the corner of Peter's desk. "You wanted the Mendini files. Nice tie."

Peter sighed and rubbed his face. "It's a great tie, but I can't accept gifts from Neal. Even the appearance of corruption, and Hughes will cancel the whole—"

"It's to replace his old yellow one," Neal told Cruz.

Cruz nodded. "Good call." She glanced from Neal to Peter and back again. "I could take up a collection around the office to cover it. There's a lot of people who'd be happy to see that puppy burn."

Neal smiled approvingly.

"We're the FBI, not the fashion police!" Peter glared at Cruz. She should at least make a token show of siding with him.

"You've hurt his feelings," Neal told her.

She shrugged. "He's tough—he can take it." She headed for the door.

"Fine," said Peter, when she'd gone. "I accept the tie. Thank you. But it's still not lucky."

"I guess we'll have to see what we can do about that," said Neal, smoothly, his eyes innocent. His body lean and vital.

Peter forced himself to look away, to think about work and the office and how Neal was a criminal who was not to be trusted, no matter how intense and blue his eyes were. "I've signed you up for firearms training. Nine-thirty, Saturday morning."

"What?" Neal sat up straight, his innocence dissolving into a frown. "Peter, I really don't think that's a—"

"I've already cleared it with Hughes." Peter put the lid back on the box and put it safely in his desk drawer.

"The FBI's going to give me a gun?" It was Neal's turn to be taken aback.

"Only on assignment and only with his say-so."

Neal's frown deepened. "You know I don't like guns."

Peter nodded. "A lot of the people we're chasing do, and they always seem to end up pointing their barrels in your direction. Everyone else in this office knows how to protect themselves."

"I live by my wits," Neal reminded him.

"Your wits didn't stop Fiametta from pulling the trigger."

Neal stared at him, apparently calculating the odds of changing his mind. "Put on the tie."

"What?"

"Put on the tie, I'll agree to go to gun school and then it can officially be your lucky tie." Neal sounded remarkably earnest for someone laying out such a flawed chain of logic. Peter thought about pulling rank, but decided doing it this way would be easier. What did it matter how he got Neal to agree?

He tugged off the tie he was wearing and brought out the new one, tied it with clumsy fingers while Neal watched. "So. You're going to firearms training on Saturday."

Neal seemed distracted by the tie. Or possibly by Peter's neck. "Sure. But I'll only go if Elizabeth comes too."

"My wife?" Peter blinked. "What are you up to?"

Neal's lips curved. "You're so suspicious."

Peter ignored him. "Why Elizabeth?"

"Why not?" Neal's gaze dropped. For a split second he looked tired and a little lost, and then it was gone, replaced with a teasing grin. "Let's just say she brings out the best in you."

Peter touched his new lucky tie. "Fine, I'll ask her. But you're going, whether or not she says yes."

 

**4.**

Peter lurked at the back of the classroom for the first hour and a half, sitting in while the ex-special-forces instructor lectured the class of eight on basic firearm safety, types of handguns and the elements of marksmanship.

Neal and Elizabeth were sitting next to each other at the front of the classroom, asking good questions and occasionally exchanging whispered asides. Peter's gaze returned to them again and again. He rarely had the opportunity to watch Neal unobserved, and as he did, an emotion grew so big in his chest that his ribs ached. While the instructor laid out types of trigger pulls, Peter finally admitted to himself the mess he was in: he loved Neal.

Up till now, Peter had only ever fallen in love once in his life, with a smart, beautiful woman who'd laughed with him and made love with him and, thank God, had agreed to marry him. He owed everything he had to Elizabeth. He'd be lost without her.

Now there was Neal. Just as beautiful, just as smart, with his humor and his passion, his absurd leaps of logic and his ridiculous hat. Peter had been attracted to him from the start, helpless to fight it much to his own annoyance. Determined to ignore it instead, put it aside and get on with his job. But sometime in the last few weeks, Neal had insinuated his way into Peter's heart and nothing would ever be the same. It was like waking to find a second sun in the sky, huge and fierce and incontrovertible.

Peter's head told him he couldn't trust Neal Caffrey. His heart said it was too late—he already did.

He slipped out of the classroom and went for a walk, trying to find his bearings, to make sense of the impossible situation he was in. There was a park at the end of the block, and he found a bench on a grassy slope and sat, looking out at the brownstones of Brooklyn, the endless stream of weekend traffic. Watching squirrels scamper up and down trees, their tails wafting behind them. Children were shrieking in the playground down to the left, and some older kids were playing pick-up on the basketball court. Peter leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head.

He was in love with two people. He hadn't even known that was possible, and he certainly didn't think Elizabeth would welcome the news! He took a guilty moment to be thankful they hadn't started a family yet—that if he misstepped and his world came tumbling down, either due to his own foolishness or from getting caught up in Neal's inevitable machinations, at least he wouldn't hurt innocent bystanders.

So, then. If he told Elizabeth, she'd forgive him, he knew, but she might insist he send Neal back to prison. It would be a reasonable request—removing temptation, allowing them to get on with their life together. Except that Peter didn't know if he could bring himself to abandon Neal to the brutal, uncaring system again.

What other choices did he have? And how real were Neal's intentions, anyway? The man lived in a world of charm and opportunism, he flirted with everyone who crossed his path—to think he might have real feelings for an ordinary, sober Federal agent was improbable at best. He had kissed Peter once as a joke, and teased him for being jealous. He'd asked for trust and appeared disappointed when Peter had denied him. He seemed to enjoy Peter's company and he'd bought Peter a tie.

It didn't exactly add up to a confession of undying devotion.

Peter sat there, thinking himself into knots, oblivious to the shadows sliding across the ground and people passing by, not moving until his phone rang. "This is Burke."

"Honey, where are you? We're nearly done here, and Neal's dying for a cup of coffee. If we don't feed him soon, I think he's going to lose it." Elizabeth sounded happy and amused.

Peter shook himself out of his torpor. "I'll be there in five minutes."

 

**5\. **

The short walk back to the shooting range helped him get a grip. Nothing had to be decided now, today. There was time for him to figure out a logical solution to this. A way to ensure Neal's freedom without jeopardizing Peter and Elizabeth's marriage. A way to keep Neal in his life without driving himself crazy in the process. A way to have his cake and eat it too. There had to be.

Peter would figure out the best possible solution and present it to Elizabeth. Perhaps she'd indulge him, if he could come up with a good enough plan. Assuming Neal would go along with it. Assuming he wouldn't take them for everything he could get. Peter was in love, but he wasn't stupid—he knew the risks.

He pushed through the double doors into the foyer of the shooting range, just as Elizabeth danced down the hallway toward him, her eyes alight, bubbling with energy and excitement. The sight made him smile despite himself.

Neal followed along behind her, also clearly entertained by her high spirits.

"You had a good time," Peter observed.

"Oh, it was amazing!" said Elizabeth. "I got to fire a Smith and Wesson .500 revolver! It was enormous, and the recoil—"

"You'd better watch out," said Neal. "Before you know it, she'll be running the New York chapter of the NRA."

"God help us all," said Peter. "How about you—did you learn anything?"

"I learned that even if you lift the clip, there's still a bullet in the chamber," said Neal. "I mean, no, it was interesting. I think it'll be useful."

"It was awesome!" said Elizabeth, with a goofy grin. "I'm going to buy a gun. I'm going to be a sharpshooter."

"You're a regular Annie Oakley," said Peter.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him, but before he could respond or give her more than a quick hug in return, she was off again, her arms wide as if she wanted to embrace the whole world. And the next thing Peter knew, she was hugging Neal, kissing him just as she'd kissed Peter only seconds before.

Except that this kiss lingered, caught like a flame to paper. Peter's breath hitched at the sight, desire twisting through him.

Neal gripped her shoulders as if to push her away, but she was already pulling back, wide-eyed and giggly. "Uh," she said, "sorry. I'm a little—I _really_ need to eat."

Neal darted a glance at Peter, but his words were directed at Elizabeth. "I can't believe they let you handle a gun in this condition," he said, teasing. "You're a menace to society."

"I wasn't _in_ this condition before," she said. "It was the guns that made me this way. I think I'll get a rifle. And maybe a revolver. Honey, can I have a revolver for Christmas?"

"You've created a monster," said Neal. They went out into the parking lot. "She's a good shot, too. Much better than me."

"It was your idea to bring her along," said Peter, still reeling from the image of the two of them kissing. The two of them together. What if he could have _that_? It seemed impossible, too wonderful and dangerous to even think about. But Neal had done that before, hadn't he? He'd mentioned him and Kate dating a French painter.

"I know," said Neal lightly. "It's all my fault."

Peter had lost the thread of the conversation. He waved them both into the car and stood a moment, bracing his hands against its hot metal roof, while love and lust fought a pitched battle in his head with good judgment and commonsense.

 

**6\. **

After a late lunch dominated by Elizabeth's excited new obsession with firearms and Neal's gentle mockery of same, Peter left El to shop in Union Square and drove Neal home.

Neal sat in the passenger seat and made small talk all the way to 51st Street. Then he turned to Peter. "Am I going back to prison?"

"What? No!" Peter looked across startled. "What are you talking about? Did you do something I should know about?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I kissed your wife."

"Hey, I was there." Peter turned right, ignoring the rude gestures of a cab driver. "She kissed you. It wasn't your fault."

Neal's shoulders relaxed. He twirled his hat between his fingers. "Rushing in where angels fear to tread."

"Elizabeth is no fool," said Peter, refusing to look at him. They passed the rest of the journey in silence.

 

**7.**

Peter lay awake that night, trying to untangle his thoughts and feelings so he could formulate a plan, some way to resolve his legal and ethical obligations to the agency and to Neal. He couldn't think of a single qualified and suitably experienced agent who'd be willing to take over responsibility for Neal and even if he could, how would he explain it? Every path he started down turned into a dead end, and that was even without taking his marriage into consideration.

El shifted restlessly beside him. "Honey, are you awake?" she murmured.

"What is it?" He turned his head, trying to see her in the dark.

The mattress jostled as she moved to switch on the lamp, and Peter squinted against the brightness. Her hair was tied back, making her look young and vulnerable. He wanted to pull her close, but couldn't, too ashamed of his thoughts, his indefensible emotions.

"We need to talk." She propped her head on her hand and looked at him with serious eyes. "We need to talk about Neal."

 

* * *

 

## A More Challenging Game

 

June owned a cream-colored Rolls Royce as well as the Jag. After Peter dropped him home, Neal changed into jeans and an old shirt and went down to the garage to earn his keep.

He liked the garage—it was cool and quiet, and June's driver Maurice, who spent half his life playing Solitaire on his laptop in an adjoining room, could sometimes be lured into an impromptu game of poker. Once or twice June had joined in, laughing at both of them while giving Neal a serious run for his money.

Today Maurice wasn't around, which was something of a relief. Neal's nerves were still buzzing and he needed to think. He opened the tub of car wax and started rubbing it in small circles on the hood of the Jag.

Elizabeth had kissed him.

Peter wasn't mad.

The two facts were equally worthy of attention, and they completely eclipsed the morning's firearms training. Peter had been tight-lipped and distracted through lunch, enough that Elizabeth and Neal had exchanged concerned glances about him a couple of times. Enough that Neal was certain Peter was biding his time, waiting till they were alone before he lost his cool. But when Neal raised the topic in the car, Peter was genuinely startled at Neal's suggestion he'd done anything wrong. Either Peter was the fairest man in the universe and saving all his ire for Elizabeth, or he'd been stewing about something else.

Maybe he'd enjoyed the show a little too much.

Neal had definitely enjoyed it. It had been his third kiss in over four years, a depressing ratio in itself, only made worse by specifics (the first, a brief unsolicited peck on Peter's lips, hardly satisfying; the second, a black widow's kiss from Maria Fiametta as she patted him down). To have Elizabeth's mouth on his, her warm body pressed against him, the flare of desire—

And the fact that only seconds before, she'd been kissing Peter—

Neal put the wax and sponge aside and started working a chamois over the Jag's metallic curves, frowning as the paint began to gleam. Elizabeth was warm, funny and sexy. Where Peter had said no repeatedly, apparently deriving only frustration from his attraction to Neal, Elizabeth had said nothing but yes. She'd accepted Neal, included him, taken no bullshit. They had a lot of superficial things in common, and they had Peter.

But of course it was impossible. Complicated by Peter, by a gulf in experience and lifestyle. Most of all complicated by the fact that Neal, who needed now more than ever to keep his wits about him and be his own man, felt helpless to deny her anything.

He'd gone to the Fiametta meet intending to cut his tracker and run, but Elizabeth's voice down the line—_I hope he can count on you_—had been enough to undo him, to make him abandon all plans of freedom.

She could read him, and that was always seductive, but to love a woman he couldn't lie to, one who demanded he be noble and self-sacrificing and honest—that was the most dangerous thing imaginable. Even Peter, with his cynical belief in Neal's fallibility, was a safer bet!

Neal shook his head and resolved to keep his distance from Elizabeth Burke from now on.

Except that half an hour later, in the shower, with hot water streaming down his body and no reason to hurry, he remembered the kiss. Not just remembered—he relived it in luxurious detail. There had been a connection between them all morning, as they whispered asides to each other in class and cheered each other on at the firing range. A connection that culminated in Elizabeth dancing towards him with pleasure in her eyes, a glow in her cheeks. She hadn't hesitated, had just thrown her arms around him and pressed her mouth to his, casual at first, then softening into a real kiss. A kiss meant just for him. He ran his hand over his stomach, down further and stroked himself, imagining where the embrace might have gone if circumstances had been different.

Peter's heated gaze. Elizabeth's mood kindling to desire as she drew Neal's hand under her blouse to cup her breast. The rough lace of her bra. Sliding his other hand into her soft hair, surrendering to her and letting loose, letting himself want and feel and need. Neal gasped as he came, but the pictures flashing through his mind continued: Peter moving toward them, coming up behind Elizabeth and reaching around her, reaching for Neal. Kissing him over Elizabeth's shoulder while she looked on in approval. All of them breathing hard, turned on and oblivious to everything around them.

Neal leaned his forehead against the wall of the shower and groaned. "I'm so screwed."

 

* * *

 

  
Half an hour later, Elizabeth knocked on his door.

She had shopping bags from Saks Fifth Avenue and Bebe, and her jacket draped over her arm. She gave him a knowing smile, amused by his surprise. "Hi there."

There was nothing else for it. He let her in. "Does Peter know you're here?"

But she put her bags on the floor against the wall, laid her jacket over them and looked around, eyebrows raised. "Wow. Nice place!"

"Elizabeth."

Still no answer. He'd been reading on the couch, wearing sweatpants and an open shirt. Now he buttoned the shirt quickly, wondering what the hell was going on.

She went to the window to view the rooftop patio, and he took advantage of her turned back to move the Bordeaux bottle with its lemon juice map from the table to the mantle next to the candlestick, where it was less obvious. That done, he relaxed a little.

"This is incredible," she said, smiling. "You do land on your feet, don't you? From prison to here in two easy steps."

"Don't kid yourself. They weren't that easy." Convincing Peter to take a chance on him had required a lot of research and all Neal's ingenuity and persuasive powers. "Your husband's not exactly a pushover."

Elizabeth's mouth turned down in wry acknowledgement. "Well, I'm glad you talked him into it. You're a good influence on him." That surprised a laugh out of him, and Elizabeth grinned. "I mean it! You keep him on his toes, you challenge him, you get results—I don't think he's ever been happier."

"Except today."

Elizabeth ducked her head, then looked up and met his gaze head on. "Maybe."

It was a challenge Neal had no intention of accepting. "Can I get you something to drink?"

She shook her head, then changed her mind. "I hear you make a mean cup of coffee."

"Italian roast," he said and reached for the French press.

She leaned her hip against the counter, watching him spoon out the grounds. "The day you cut your tracker," she said without warning, "you were planning to leave, weren't you? Just up and disappear."

He nodded, the truth drawn from him before he could calculate the risks. Oh hell. He scrambled to gather his wits.

"Want to trade secrets?" he asked, harking back to the first time they'd met.

She looked mischievous. "I thought we already were. Why didn't you run when you could?"

He paused with the French press tilted and ready to pour. "I knew Peter would catch me and send me back to jail."

It was a relief to find he could lie to her at all, but when he looked up, her gaze pierced him as if she could read his mind. As if she knew everything about him.

"You asked if you could count on me," he admitted, and then snapped his mouth shut.

Her eyes widened, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Oh."

The best defense was a strong offense. "Why are you here, Elizabeth?"

"Honestly?" She lifted her chin, still red-faced but apparently determined to plow on anyway, "This morning—it wasn't an accident. Not completely. And I need to know—" She pushed her hair back from her face. "—how you feel about that, and whether we can trust you."

Neal stepped in and handed her a cup of coffee, their fingers brushing. His body prickled with awareness. "You can trust me," he said. "More than I'd like."

"Poor baby," she murmured, patting his arm, and the mood shifted like a key change from major to minor. They both froze. The tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips. It took everything Neal had not to wrap her in his arms and pick up where they'd left off earlier that day.

His breath caught. "Peter wouldn't be okay with this."

"Maybe," she said again, stepping away. "And then there's Kate."

Neal picked up his own cup and blew on the dark surface of the coffee, taking his time. "Kate is my past," he said. "I care for her, I still owe her, but—" He shook his head and resisted the impulse to glance at the bottle on the mantle. Instead he tugged up the leg of his sweatpants to reveal his tracker. "My options are pretty limited. There's not much I can do for her right now."

"You would if you could," said Elizabeth.

"I owe her," he repeated. "I got overconfident and sloppy and let myself get caught. I left her with nothing. And now she's in trouble."

He hadn't meant to give away that much, but thankfully Elizabeth didn't follow it up. Instead she sat down at the table and waited for him to join her.

"I like you," she said bluntly. "Which you already knew because pretty much everyone likes you." She feigned disapproval, then relaxed back into a grin. "I don't know, maybe it sounds silly, but I keep feeling like there's another life, another world where you and me and Peter are—grifters? Troublemakers?" She lowered her eyes as if she was talking to herself. "Where we're having the time of our lives. All of us."

She glanced up at him, checking his reaction. He shook his head a little, mocking her. The idea that she could deliberately mislead an unsuspecting mark was absurd, let alone that Peter might go along with it. They were both too honorable, too _good_. Still, as a fantasy it certainly had its appeal: Elizabeth and Peter taking a walk on the wild side with him. Showing them the ropes, sharing the thrills and the spoils.

Elizabeth laid her hands flat on the table. "He doesn't know I'm here, but if he did, I think he'd be okay with it."

"If he was, he'd be a fool," Neal told her. "And Peter's anything but a fool."

She took his meaning and flushed again, her lips curving. "You are very attractive and also incorrigible. You know what I mean. He trusts me—and he's right to. I would never do anything to hurt him." She leveled her gaze at him. "And I think he trusts you more than he knows."

That lightning flash of resentment again, balking against the restraints of expectation and respectability. He didn't want to be domesticated, kept on a leash. And yet, the ankle bracelet had been his idea, he'd actively sought out Elizabeth's friendship and he'd flirted with Peter, deliberately insinuated his way into their lives.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, recognizing his bad humor, questioning it, but he shook his head. That much he'd keep under wraps.

Then she asked, "Do you care about him?" and he kicked himself, wishing too late he'd taken the opportunity to steer the conversation to safer waters.

Still, it was a fair question. Neal thought about Peter, frowning and fussing about FBI procedure. About working with him to study the angles, solve the mystery, to understand and anticipate their quarry. About his quick intelligence. Peter lending Neal his FBI windbreaker without question. Grinning like a proud kid when a bust was successful. Dourly concerned, as he handed over the security tape of Kate. Insisting Neal learn to protect himself. Sitting across from Neal in a stranded elevator, admitting his feelings in the negative space.

Neal grimaced ruefully. "It's impossible, isn't it?"

"Actually, I think it makes things remarkably straight forward," she said, and squeezed his hand. He returned the pressure, tempted to kiss her palm, but she didn't give him a chance. She drank her espresso and stood up. "I have to go," she said, resolutely. "Peter's expecting me and I have to take Satchmo for a run."

He followed her to the door, where she gathered her things and then reached up to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," she said. "For being honest with me, and for taking care of Peter."

On impulse, he caught her arm and bent down, quickly brushing his lips against hers in a move too fleeting to be anything but a parting gesture. Her smile wavered, eyes darkening, and she left.

Neal rested his head against the door and experienced a moment's triumph: he might be helpless to deceive Elizabeth, but he had the power to shake her composure, too. She wanted him—for all the good that did either of them.

 

* * *

 

## Burden of Truth

 

"We have to talk about Neal," said Elizabeth.

Peter's deer-in-the-headlights reaction confirmed all her suspicions, but for once she didn't laugh at him. With his bed-rumpled hair and serious frown, he looked like a small boy in desperate need of a hug. She pressed her hand to his chest to soothe him and waited.

It took him a long time to get started. He kept taking a deep breath as if he were going to speak, but then he'd let it out again, slowly, defeated.

"Honey?" she said, at last. "It's okay, I promise. Just tell me."

A couple more breaths and he managed, "When you kissed him today at the firing range..."

She nodded encouragement.

"I should have been jealous."

El leaned forward and kissed him softly, and it was as if doing so unlocked his secrets. His next words came more easily.

"There's something between us, El. I can feel it." His expression pleaded for her understanding.

"I know," she said. "I feel it too."

"And I want to trust him, but—"

"It's scary," she said. "I know. But he does care about you. About both of us."

His gaze focused on her. "You can't be sure of that." He didn't sound particularly happy at the thought.

"I went to see him this afternoon." Elizabeth rubbed her fingers in small circles on his chest. "Just to talk. We just talked. He doesn't lie to me."

Peter took her hand and trapped it flat against him. She could feel his heart thudding. "You think that. That's what he wants you to think."

El tapped her forehead, smiling. "Smart, remember?"

"A lot of smart people have fallen for his lines." Peter rolled onto his back and sighed at the ceiling. "He could be playing us, El. We don't know what he wants. Hell, _he_ probably doesn't know what he wants. It took him three months and a lot of dedicated planning to break out of prison, but half the time I think his attention span is worse than Satchmo's."

Elizabeth tucked her head on his shoulder. "Have you told him how you feel?"

"No, and I'm not going to." He sounded determined. "Feelings don't change the facts. He's still a felon in my care. The best thing I can do for him is to keep things professional between us and try to steer him away from any trouble he tries to get himself into."

"Oh honey." He sounded like he was reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. Then Peter said, as if the words were dragged from him by force, "I love him, El."

She got up on one elbow and studied him, his face a portrait of misery and resignation, and only then the enormity of his confession struck her. He wasn't solely hers anymore, she wasn't the pivot point of his world. It stung, but the hurt passed quickly: she'd known this was coming from the day Neal turned up on her doorstep with his easy smile and the chemistry that hummed between him and her husband. Just like the attraction that had hummed between her and Neal only a few hours earlier.

With her, it could have been a passing fancy, but Peter didn't do casual. His heart was a citadel—very nearly impenetrable. He didn't love easily, but when he did, his devotion was steadfast and absolute. El knew that, and remembering it now made her feel better about sharing him. He would always love her, no matter what.

"I know you do," she said now, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "It's okay. You should tell him."

Peter pressed his lips together.

"Honey, this is Neal we're talking about." She cupped his cheek. "Being perceptive is part of his job description. You really think he doesn't already know?"

Peter shrugged one shoulder. "It doesn't matter what he knows. It's a no-win situation. Any hint of impropriety and he gets sent back to jail. I can't protect him from that."

"You've got more pull at the Agency than you realize," Elizabeth told him.

"Not that much," said Peter. "I can't perform miracles." He closed his eyes and sighed. "He's already the subject of a lot of suspicion. People are watching him—Hughes, Ruiz, even Cruz. If they think I'm too sympathetic to Neal, if they think I'm giving him too much rope, they'll step up their surveillance and catch him out, and that's that."

"Wow," said Elizabeth, "you've seriously thought about this." She lay down again, shoulder to shoulder with him, but still holding his hand. "So, what do we do?"

The pillow rustled as his head turned. "We?"

She gave him a small sideways smile. "I was starting to get ideas. You and Neal make a very handsome pair—a girl would have to be crazy to pass up getting in on some of that action."

She said it jokingly, but Peter looked stricken, and his grip on her hand tightened painfully. "El, you know I would do anything for you. And to have both of you—that would make me the luckiest man in history. Even luckier than I already am, which is—But you have to trust me when I say it's just not possible." He turned so he was facing her. "If you can do one thing for me, don't think about Neal that way. Help me be strong about this."

He looked so earnest, her heart ached for him, and she had no choice but to agree. Reluctantly, she folded away the fantasies and dreams she'd been indulging in these last few weeks. Neal would be her husband's partner, and maybe in time, her friend. But nothing more.

"Okay," she said, pulling Peter close and cradling him. "Shhh. If that's what you need me to do, then I'll try."

 

* * *

 

## Inadmissible—Heads, Heads, Tails

 

**1\. **

And still on the surface nothing changed, and what seemed an impossible feat of self-denial while talking to Elizabeth in the dead of night, soon became routine. Peter wanted Neal, was continually aware of his physical presence, distracted by his mercurial moods and quick wit, but—at least at first—the attraction was easy enough to set aside because Peter knew he was right about this. Working with Neal was more than enough compensation: when they were solving a case, the spark, the shared excitement of the chase and the lightning fast syncopation of ideas transcended all other considerations.

And Neal seemed content enough. On the Monday morning after the firearms training and the talk with Elizabeth, Peter had caught Neal eyeing him speculatively, as if curiosity tempted him like a cat with a death wish, but Neal didn't say anything, and Peter bit his tongue and occupied them both with a case involving several million dollars' worth of counterfeit New Zealand dollars. By the time they'd caught the NYU graduate student responsible ("You've got to admit the kid's got talent." "It's a shame she didn't use it for something legal."), Neal had got the message. He was careful around Peter, somewhat subdued. Still attentive, but not intrusively so.

There was something off about that, though Peter couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He told himself it was possible that, for once in his life, Neal recognized the wisdom of restraint—but a small voice whispered maybe Neal simply didn't want Peter. Maybe he'd been toying with him. Maybe he was mooning over Kate. Or Lauren Cruz. Or Elizabeth.

Regardless, Peter missed Neal's casual intrusions, but the hardest time of day was in the evening, when Peter took Neal home to June's and left him there. When he went home alone to Elizabeth and made love with her, and tried to ignore the nagging sense of something missing.

Elizabeth was true to her word and didn't raise the matter, and Peter knew that the only way to carry on was to let it lie.

 

**2\. **

Neal. The man's eyelashes were beguiling, his eyebrows sharp and eloquent above blue irises that seemed lit from within. The way his pupils dilated when he stared at Peter—

Much more of this and Peter feared he might start spontaneously composing sonnets, and he was no Shakespeare! He'd proven that when he was courting Elizabeth.

He and Neal had been poring over Siegmann &amp; Kossivic's corporate records all morning, trying to discover who was responsible for embezzling three quarters of a million dollars from the trading account. Unfortunately, the company's CFO was a douchebag and Peter was having difficulty caring about any of it. He was tired and his self-control was at a low ebb.

_You should tell him, _Elizabeth had said, and now, today, Peter suddenly desperately wanted to. He wanted to say, _I love you_ and _Kiss me_ and _What did you say to my wife when she came to see you? Did you touch her? Did you want to?_ The questions were poised on the tip of his tongue.

Mostly he wanted to sit here, slumped at his desk across from Neal, and forget all their responsibilities and commitments. He wanted to do kid stuff—get ice cream cones, go to the Central Park Zoo, stroll by the lake, holding hands. He wanted Neal to back him up against a tree, give him that intent flirtatious smile that Peter saw a dozen times a day directed at a dozen different women. He wanted Neal to lean in and murmur something audacious and obscene in his ear, so Peter would have no choice but to drag him close—

Neal's eyebrow twitched, curious.

Jesus! Peter couldn't afford this kind of lapse, especially not here in the office. He cleared his throat. "What are you thinking?"

For a moment, it was as if Neal could read his mind, would answer the true questions, not the dull puzzle spread out on the table between them.

But then, "I'm thinking it was the accountant," he said. "In the law office."

"With the illegal wire transfer," agreed Peter, yanking his focus back to the case, forcing himself to care about justice and the law. It was the only responsible course. The only way to ensure Neal's safety.

 

**3.**

"Come on," said Peter, recklessly. "I'm buying you a drink."

This was self-indulgence; Dana Mitchell's distraught tears were just a convenient excuse. Peter wanted to spend time alone with Neal, and if they couldn't be completely alone, they could at least get out of the office and go somewhere they could hang out and talk like regular guy buddies.

Neal came obediently, sat beside him in the beer garden, nursing a glass of wine and talking shop and looking like a model or a movie star. Watching him. "Shouldn't you be getting home to Elizabeth?"

It was an innocent question on the face of it, and Peter responded in kind, keeping up the charade and reciting clichés—Dana's presence, can't handle women crying, always try to fix it—as if he and Neal were strangers.

Neal evinced sympathy according to the script. It felt like they were both on an emotional high wire, and it took four beers for Peter to relax enough to enjoy himself.

That night, still a little muzzy from the beer, sitting on the foot of his marital bed after being banished upstairs by Elizabeth, it occurred to Peter that Neal's tractability could be a sign of indifference.

Which shouldn't make any difference at all: Peter should still want the best for Neal. But God, it hurt.

So it was doubt that drove Peter to Neal's doorstep the next night. El had kicked him out for the evening and it was a stupid move, but Peter couldn't stay away. He wanted Neal to tempt him past breaking point. He wanted to succumb.

Instead all he got was more play-acting—this time for the benefit of Mr. Haversham. It was illuminating to meet Neal's friend, another tie to bind them, and Peter said what was expected of him, as he drank too much beer, too fast.

"It's not about the stuff," said Haversham, waxing lyrical about a life of crime, "it's about doing what we want to do."

In that moment, Peter could taste it: freedom.

Then Neal said, "You live in a storage unit," and Peter came back to earth. The cost of transgression was too high—he couldn't risk everything on the roll of a dice. It wouldn't be fair to Elizabeth, or Neal, or himself.

Eventually he left them to their privacy, and stumbled out into the cool New York City night, where he slid behind the wheel of his car and stared blindly through the windshield, not moving. It was for the best.

He'd sworn he wouldn't go there.

And they were in the middle of a case; El would kill him if he didn't clear Mitchell.

And Neal didn't want him anyway.

Peter sighed heavily and got out of the car again. He was too drunk to drive. He wrapped his coat tight around him and headed for the nearest subway station and home.

 

* * *

 

## Perjury

 

The door closed behind Peter, and Neal let out a gusty sigh of relief. Watching Peter and Mozzie get drunker and drunker, and less and less discreet had been torture. Balancing who he was supposed to be to each of them had only added to the strain.

And on top of that had been the distraction of wondering what would have happened if Mozzie hadn't arrived. If the evening had consisted of Peter, Neal and a whole lot of alcohol—it was a scenario that definitely invited conjecture.

Neal's train of thought derailed when Mozzie slammed his gin glass down on the table, looked mournfully at the spillage and tried to mop it up with his thumb. "So, that's your Fed."

"That's him," said Neal, holding the gold dinar up to the lamplight and studying it, avoiding Mozzie's eye.

Mozzie blinked as if the world wasn't quite in focus, and then again as if it was. "You have feelings for him."

"What?" The coin fell to the table, bounced onto the floor and rolled under the couch. Neal didn't move. "No, I don't."

"Oh, please." Mozzie leaned back and belched.

Neal grimaced. "You're drunk."

"But not stupid. What about Kate?" Mozzie sounded alarmingly lucid and sure of himself. Sometimes it was infuriating to have a friend who knew him so well.

"Moz, I don't have feelings for Peter Burke. That's ridiculous! You've met him—does he seem like my type? I just need to convince him to trust me so I can get some leverage, since you've been too busy to come up with a solution to this thing." Neal banged his left ankle pointedly against Mozzie's shin.

Mozzie scowled down at Neal's pant leg, but refused to be diverted. "No, it's more than that. You've got Stockholm syndrome." He took a fortifying mouthful of gin and tonic. "This is worse than I thought."

"You're out of your mind," said Neal, as firmly as he could, but Mozzie wasn't listening.

"What are you going to do," he said, getting to his feet and pacing the room, "throw away everything to settle down and live happily ever after in the suburbs? You'd be bored out of your mind in a week. Less than a week."

Neal tried again to interrupt: he didn't want to hear this. Mozzie wasn't supposed to know anything about Peter, let alone be able to pinpoint Neal's attraction to him. Peter had been distant and off-kilter since the day of the firearms training, and Elizabeth was barely speaking to him. Neal was coping with that, since he had no choice, but the last thing he needed was a lecture from Moz.

It was too late. "What about me?" Moz was saying. "Do you realize the risks I take every day to help you, giving you information I glean from unsavory characters in shady locations—"

"Moz, you get your intel from your brother-in-law," Neal pointed out, exasperated.

"That's not the point." He gestured with his glass, which fortunately was empty. "I'm known to associate with someone who has strong links with the FBI. People talk, and sooner or later—"

"Moz, what did you do while I was inside?"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Mozzie, primly, but at least that distracted him from his rant. Neal went over to the bed and picked up a plain blue cloth-bound thesis, pressing his advantage.

"Listen, I need you to do something for me. There's a second copy of this in the FBI National Academy library in Quantico. I need it and any others that are floating around. Microfilm, too."

"_The Chase and Capture of a Master Forger: a case study_ by Lauren Cruz," read Mozzie. "A little vanity publishing?"

"You could say that. Cruz is one of the agents I'm working with."

Mozzie flicked through the pages, reading a paragraph here and there. "She's good."

"Too good." Neal closed the book and put his hand on the cover. "There's a lot of information in there."

"Why can't you get them yourself?" asked Mozzie. "It'd be easier through official channels. I'm assuming they do let you have access to the library."

"I got this one on interlibrary loan through the office, but I can't afford to draw attention to myself by asking for another copy. It can't link back to me. Oh, and if you happened to lay your hands on Cruz's laptop and backup disks from her time at Quantico, that wouldn't hurt either," said Neal, playing it for more drama than it really warranted. "Come on, Moz. You know people who know people. No one will trace it back to you."

"Your FBI friend might," Mozzie pointed out.

Neal sighed. "Peter won't make the connection, and even if he did, you can trust him. You saw him tonight with the coin—he's more adaptable than he looks."

"Trust him?" repeated Mozzie. "Would you listen to yourself? You're forgetting who you are."

_Maybe I'm finding out who I am,_ thought Neal, but that was the top of the list of things he couldn't say. He hedged instead. "You're more use to Peter as an unofficial informant than as another body in a jail cell. Besides, he doesn't know your name."

"You don't know that," said Mozzie, but it was a token protest.

Neal threw him the brick-colored cashmere blanket from the armchair, taking it for granted that he'd sleep on the couch. Giving Mozzie a place to sleep was quid pro quo, and from what Neal remembered of the storage unit, it was also a necessary health precaution.

"Thanks, Moz," he said.

Mozzie snorted. "Just so long as when it comes down to the wire, you remember who your friends are." He hung his jacket on the back of a chair and settled in on the couch. "I need another pillow."

Neal took one from the closet and tossed it over. "'Night."

And then he went to bed himself and lay awake, worrying about Kate and the mess she'd got herself into. Thinking about Peter and Elizabeth. Wondering again what would've happened tonight if Moz hadn't shown up when he did. Wishing against all reason that he could have found out.

 

* * *

 

## Cross Examination

 

**1.**

Two days after they closed the stolen Iraqi artifacts case, Peter called Cruz into his office. "Shut the door."

She came to stand in front of his desk and gave him an enquiring smile that faded when she saw his expression. "What's up?"

"Sit down." Peter slid the transcript from the surveillance tapes across to her. He'd read that and the report, and he wasn't happy. "This is about the Patrick Aimes take-down at the museum. You did good work in there, and I know things got a little dicey—probably not what you were expecting when you transferred to the White Collar Unit—but I have to tell you, Lauren, I've got a problem with how you handled the situation."

"Okay." She stayed standing. "What's the problem?"

"Now, I understand that stupid things get said in the heat of the moment," said Peter, trying his best to be fair, "but if you ever encourage anyone to open fire on one of our consultants again, I'll bring disciplinary charges so fast you won't know what hit you."

"Wait, what?" Cruz looked shocked. "What are you talking about? I didn't do that."

Peter leaned across and flipped open the transcript in front of her, and read from it upside-down. "_Looks like we have a standoff._ That was Neal. And you answered, _No, we don't. Shoot him, then I'll have you on murder, too. Go on._ That was directed at Aimes' bodyguard, right?"

"Well, yeah, but I was being sarcastic," she protested. "He knew I didn't mean it."

Peter shook his head. "You don't make jokes about terrorists at airport security, and you don't exchange cutesy banter with armed thugs at the expense of our people. That's not how we work here."

Cruz opened her mouth then shut it again, her eyes narrowing. "Is this because he's a contractor or because he's Neal Caffrey?"

Peter stood up and straightened his shoulders, frowning. "Our civilian contractors are not expendable, no matter who they are or where they came from. We do not needlessly endanger their lives, end of story. If you have a problem with that, I can get you reassigned."

She pressed her lips together. "Fine. I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

"That's all I'm asking. I won't be raising this with Hughes for now, but if anything like this happens again, I'll have no choice. That's all," said Peter, and waited until she left before he sat back down and swiveled his chair to look out the window.

Great. Now Cruz was pissed, and Peter was going to have to keep an eye on her, but he couldn't let the incident slide. Maybe he was overreacting—he hadn't listened to the tape, just read the transcript—but her behavior clearly breached protocol. And of course, it didn't help that Peter's blood ran cold at the thought of what would've happened if Aimes' bodyguard had taken Cruz at her word.

Neal sauntered in and raised his eyebrows when he saw Peter's face. "Something wrong?"

"It's fine," said Peter shortly. "Come on—the mortgage documents just arrived by courier."

"We're buying a house?" said Neal. "That's a pretty serious commitment. Are you sure we're ready?" He sank into a chair and picked the top folder off the stack. "This weighs more than I do. I bet the lawyers got paid by the pound." He opened the file and thumbed through the pages. "Do we really have to go through all these?"

Peter had to clamp his mouth shut not to snap that it was a damned sight better than being in prison. He should be able to sympathize with Neal's impatience—no one liked being stuck at their desk for hours on end, and Neal was the kind of guy who needed excitement to keep him going. But real life was made up of routines and mundane tasks. If Neal was going to stay on this side of the law, he was going to have to get used to that. Not to mention that Neal's penchant for taking unofficial shortcuts and putting himself in the line of fire was taking its toll on Peter's professional standing and his blood pressure. It would make everyone's lives easier if he dialed it down.

Neal was already scanning the contract, looking for clues. The little vertical frown lines between his brows filled Peter with an achy, irascible tenderness, which he couldn't do a damned thing about.

Neal caught him staring. "What?"

"Nothing," said Peter. He picked up the nearest file and leafed through it, and when he looked up again, Neal was still eyeing him quizzically. "Get back to work."

 

**2\. **

Neal, who'd dressed with relative restraint during the Aimes case, was wearing his hat again. Peter was pretty sure that was a sign of something, if only he could figure out what.

But Neal these days was only skin-deep, always ready with a sharp smile and a glib retort, watching Peter out of the corner of his eye to see how he'd react. All through the Haustenberg case, Peter couldn't shake the feeling he was slipping away, that their bond was unraveling and Neal was about to go haring off on some Hollywood-style plot involving Kate, Grand Central Station and a misbegotten fortune.

If Peter couldn't keep Neal on the straight and narrow, he couldn't protect him, so he did everything he could think of to rein him in, trying to keep him grounded. They set up a sting at Terran VanderZande's gallery, but when Jones asked if they were cutting Neal's tracker this time, Peter said no, that Dorsett would be looking at the money, not Neal's ankles.

And when the sting went south, Peter took Neal on a good old-fashion stakeout, only somehow, when you added Neal Caffrey to the mix, even the time-honored stakeout tradition ended with two beautiful drunk Frenchwomen in a hotel room, an illegal search and a paper butterfly. Not to mention Neal stealing the goddamned painting as if he thought Peter wouldn't notice. As if he didn't realize how tenuous his position was.

Hughes had taken a personal interest in Neal's arrangement all along, but now Peter was starting to dread their weekly check-ins. "And Caffrey, how's he doing?" Hughes asked, his shrewd gaze missing nothing.

"We're getting good results," Peter told him, knowing he should admit that Neal had appropriated the portrait, that the failure to report it could be enough to lose him his badge, but unable to form the words. "He's doing well."

Hughes nodded, apparently satisfied, and moved onto budget and reports.

Peter couldn't tell on Neal. He couldn't. The distance between them was his own fault: he'd put up this wall—what had he expected? Neal could either try to scale it, or get bored and raise hell. No points for guessing which was more likely.

 

**3.**

Peter was still worrying at the situation a week later, long after they closed the Haustenberg case. He turned it over and over in his mind, testing the angles, looking for a loophole, as he shaved and dressed for work. The origami crane from the stakeout sat next to El's CDs on the mantel in the bedroom, and Peter picked it up and considered its precise folds. How could he get through to Neal?

On impulse, he took out the tie Neal had bought him and put it on instead of his usual Thursday tie, hoping the gesture would be enough to at least earn him a genuine smile.

El pulled a face when she saw it. "That's a great tie, but it doesn't really go with that suit, honey."

"Everything goes with this suit," said Peter. "This is my favorite suit."

She gave him a soft grin. "I love you, even when you're wrong." She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. "Neal's lucky tie, huh? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Peter looked down at the tie. "Maybe I should change."

But El ran her hand across the rich fabric. "Keep it," she said, and kissed him. "And tell Neal hello. I miss him."

There was no recrimination in her tone, but Peter still felt guilty. Was he making all of them miserable for the sake of out-dated scruples? Or was that the kind of twisted question that only came from desperately trying to justify a breach of ethics? He couldn't tell anymore.

"I will." He hugged Elizabeth quickly and left, wondering when his nice, quiet life had got so damned complicated.

 

**4\. **

"Oh, no," said Neal, when Peter stepped out onto the rooftop patio at June's. "You have got to be kidding me."

"What?" Peter made straight for the coffee pot, not sure if he was glad or disappointed that Neal was dressed and ready to go. Catching Neal in his pajamas was one of the few indulgences left as far as their relationship—or lack thereof—was concerned, but it was also distracting and tended to make the journey to work fraught with the wrath of other drivers while Peter got his head back in the game.

"That tie with that suit?" Neal sounded genuinely offended. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm flattered you've finally taken the tie out of its box, but—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Peter, you have got to get rid of that suit."

"Hey, I _like_ this suit." Peter paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. "Why is everyone so down on my suit today?"

"Because you work in law enforcement and that suit is a crime against good taste. The tie only emphasizes the fact." Neal was ridiculously earnest for a man talking about clothing. "Let Elizabeth and me take you shopping."

"No," said Peter. He took a gulp of coffee and abandoned the cup. "Let's go."

"Come on, it'll be fun. I never see Elizabeth anymore."

"I said no," Peter snapped, leading the way inside. "There is nothing wrong with my clothes, and I don't need to be taken shopping like a child." He stopped at the head of the staircase and glared at Neal. "I accept you for who you are. Do me the same courtesy."

Neal halted too, and a sudden anger flashed in his eyes. "No, you know what? That's bullshit! Pigeonholing someone is not the same as accepting them. You're always expecting me to be the Neal Caffrey you put away four years ago. You think I'm only here because you've got me on a leash." His hands clenched into fists. "Well, you know what? Things change. If you can't accept that—" He broke off, breathing hard.

It was the first time Peter had ever seen him lose his temper, and it was shocking. Neal was always in control of himself, reactions modulated for maximum effect, but something had really got under his skin this morning. Peter frowned. "It's just a suit."

He reached for Neal's shoulder, but Neal pulled away. "Don't touch me."

That hurt. Peter folded his arms. "Fine."

Neal looked past him, out through the window at the overcast sky. "You could have so much more," he said in a muffled voice.

Then Peter felt a bolt of fury, himself. "I'm doing just fine, thank you very much." He took a step back to keep from grabbing Neal and shaking some sense into him. That would be well over the line, but God, he wanted to. "Your services won't be required today," he said instead.

That got Neal's attention. "What?"

"I think the FBI can handle twenty-four hours without its star fashion model," Peter told him, and left before he said anything worse.

He stood outside on the pavement, heart racing, still incredulous that they'd just had a fight about _clothes_. He might know Neal better than most people, but sometimes he wondered if he'd ever understand him.

 

**5.**

Peter went to the park. He couldn't go to work—he'd have to explain why Neal wasn't with him—so he called to say they were following up a lead and he went to the park, where he ate a hotdog and a cruller, scowled at the squirrels going about their business and refused to engage in conversation with two garrulous homeless people. Around lunchtime, it started to rain, and he spent the afternoon roaming the Met, brushing up on his Dutch art and wondering if Neal had ever forged a Vermeer or a Sorgh.

He called in again at four to say he wasn't going to make it into the office and went home via the supermarket, where he bought over-priced veal, fresh green beans and new potatoes, intending to surprise El with dinner so that at least one good thing could come out of the day.

Satchmo came running when he came in the front door, but trotted off again as soon as he saw that Peter wasn't Elizabeth. "Ungrateful animal," muttered Peter and carried the groceries into the kitchen.

There was a stew simmering in the crock-pot on the counter. He should've known El would have something planned. He put the veal in the refrigerator and got himself a couple of beers.

Elizabeth found him on the couch an hour and a half later. She took one look at his face and sat down next to him, taking the beer can from his hand and putting it on the coffee table with the empties. "Oh, honey." She gave him a bear hug. "What happened?"

So he told her everything, feeling foolish and incensed by turns. It was good to get it off his chest after brooding all day, but it was embarrassing too. When he finished, El looked serious.

"We can't go on like this," she said, taking his hand in both of hers. "I mean, you see that too, right? This is tearing you apart, and honestly, it's not doing me or Neal any favors either."

"We don't know what's going on with Neal," Peter reminded her. "He might just be needling me, angling for an advantage."

El drew back so she could look him dead in the eye. "You still don't trust him?"

"I want to," said Peter. "I just—I don't know. I can't think my way out of this." He shook his head, and the room spun for a moment. How many beers had he drunk? He'd lost count.

She squeezed his arm. "Well, I trust him, and here's another thing I know—three heads are better than two, especially when the third is as smart as Neal's. More importantly, I refuse to watch this eat away at you any longer." She stood up and got out her car keys. "We're going to see him right now and we're going to talk this out."

"El, that's not going to solve anything." Peter followed her to the garage, arguing all the way. "I'm telling you, even if he wants the same thing we want, there's no way to get around the fact that—" His cell phone rang, interrupting him mid-sentence. "This is Burke."

"Peter?" It was Jones. "Hughes asked me to let you know that Joseph Ruiz from Organized Crime arrested Neal two hours ago."

"What? Where is he?" Peter leaned on Elizabeth's car and covered his eyes. This couldn't be happening. "What are the charges?"

"Forgery," said Jones. "I don't know the specifics, but they had enough to get a warrant, and I heard they found evidence at the scene. Neal's been processed and he's back in jail."

"Ruiz doesn't know what he's talking about. Neal hasn't forged anything since he's been working with us. If he had, I'd know about it." Peter took an unsteady breath, fighting panic. "And why didn't anyone tell me about this sooner? Neal's supposed to be under my supervision."

Jones hesitated. "Hughes and Ruiz thought you might try to interfere with the investigation. I'm sorry, Peter—I would've called right off if they hadn't given a direct order not to."

"It's not your fault," said Peter. He hung up and stared at his phone. "It's my fault." He shouldn't have argued with Neal. He should have gone to work today. He should have stopped this from happening. "Dammit!"

El was standing next to him, watching with wide eyes. "Is it Neal?"

She still had her car keys in her hand.

Peter pulled her close and held on tight, needing all the comfort he could get. "He's been arrested."

 

* * *

 

## A Room With No Windows

 

Elizabeth drove him downtown. Peter was too drunk to drive safely, and she said she didn't want to stay home and wait for news. Neither of them spoke much on the way, except when Hughes called to fill Peter in, and then Joseph Ruiz made a "courtesy call."

"It would've been a courtesy if you'd called me before you made the arrest," Peter told him, curtly. "After the fact, it just looks like gloating."

"Hey, I've had my hands full," said Ruiz. "But you know, you make a couple of solid arrests, it's a good day. Less criminals on the streets, more behind bars where they belong. I guess you're not the only one who can catch an art forger, Burke."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, it's not so hard when he's wearing a tracking bracelet!" He hung up, before he started chewing the guy out. That would only make matters worse. "Asshole," he said to the streetlights, to the road as it rolled under them.

El didn't comment, didn't break the silence until they were nearly there. Then she said, "I want to see him. I'm coming in with you."

"Sorry, honey." Peter had been expecting that. He reached across and squeezed her hand. "If this looks personal, it undermines my position, and my wife visiting him looks personal."

"Neal is in prison," said Elizabeth, over-enunciating each word. "We both care about him. Do you really think this is the time to be worrying about your career?"

"He's in an FBI holding cell," Peter corrected, though the distinction would probably be lost on her. "And the less compromised I look, the better my chance of getting him out of there. Hughes is already watching. The fact that he let the arrest go ahead without notifying me—it's not good." He rubbed his face. "I want Neal safe as much as you do, but we've got to be smart about this."

El pressed her lips together mutinously, then gave a small sigh. "Okay. But if there's _anything_ I can do—" She turned onto Broadway.

"I'll tell you." She pulled up to the curb, and he kissed her. "I promise. Where will you be?"

"Anne's, if she's home. If not, I'll go to B Flat and get something to eat." She placed her hand over his tie—Neal's tie—and gave him a tremulous smile. "Good luck."

It wasn't until she'd driven off and he was on his way inside that he realized they hadn't discussed if it made a difference whether or not Neal was guilty.

 

* * *

 

  
Peter asked the guard working the desk to have Neal taken to an interview room, and requested a quick look through his personal effects while he waited. It wasn't a White Collar Unit arrest, but Peter had enough authority that the guard didn't argue.

The faint sounds of detainees echoed down the corridor. An attorney came to see her client. There was a pervasive and depressing smell of stale food and damp carpet.

It was ten past eight by the time Peter walked into the interview room.

Neal was wearing his own clothes—his wine-colored shirt, sleeves rolled up, and charcoal pants. He looked drawn and tired, and he glanced up at the sound of the door, meeting Peter's gaze squarely, with none of his usual smooth charm. Peter wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and take him home, but this wasn't the time or place to get into that. He had to play this by the book.

He shut the door. "You idiot, why didn't you call me?"

"And say what?" asked Neal, lifting his chin. His face was hard. "You know, I thought better of you, Peter. If you were going to get me out of your hair, I was sure you'd at least have the guts to do it yourself."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Peter stared, his stomach twisting at the accusation. "You think I planned this? The first I knew was when Jones called me half an hour ago." He glanced at his watch. "Forty minutes ago."

Neal didn't waver. "That's not what Ruiz said," he said flatly.

"Ruiz is a jackass, and if he lied to you, I'll kill him." Peter strode over and leaned across the table, willing Neal to let down his guard. "Believe me, this is the last thing I want. I've been doing every damned thing I can think of to keep you out of places like this."

Neal's jaw clenched, his face locked up like Fort Knox, and Peter threw caution to the wind and let his concern show, laid himself bare, in this blank unforgiving room. There was no longer any point in keeping his feelings hidden from Neal.

After a long moment, Neal's suspicions dissolved. He took a deep breath and let it out, relief evident in every line of his body. Then he sniffed and raised his eyebrows. "Are you drunk?"

"I may have had some beer," said Peter, taking the chair across from him. "I had a bad day. How about you?"

"I've had better." The corner of his mouth twitched, and he smoothed the front of his shirt. Fidgety, restless. Neal was not a person to suffer confinement easily. But his attention was trained on Peter now. "You've been drinking a lot lately. You do know that alcohol isn't generally the best way to deal with your problems?"

"Right now, my problem is getting you out of here," said Peter, refusing to be sidetracked. "Do you want to lecture me about stress management, or do you want to tell me why Ruiz arrested you for forging Picasso's _Femme aux Bras Croisés_?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't know," he said simply. "I didn't do it."

His expression was so exaggeratedly candid that Peter couldn't help but doubt him. "Okay," he said, "then explain to me how your address came to be found on a scrap of paper in Joey Santora's office, with a copy of the painting, during an Organized Crime bust."

A shadow flickered across Neal's face. "Maybe I was framed. There are a lot of people around here who don't like our arrangement—you know that as well as I do."

"Well, if you were framed, it wasn't Ruiz or any of his agents. I just read the search warrant application." Peter folded his arms on the table and hunched forward. "Please tell me you didn't piss off someone in the Bonnano family."

"Peter, I didn't do anything," said Neal. He leaned forward too, so they were nearly nose to nose, and used all his persuasive wiles. "You know me—do I usually hang out with the mafia? That's way out of my league."

God, Peter wanted to believe him. "Look me in the eye and tell me you haven't forged a painting since you got out."

"Peter—" He sat up again and looked across the room at nothing.

"They found brushes in your room with traces of fresh paint. Have you taken up art as a hobby now, or are you back in business?" Peter stabbed the wooden tabletop with his finger. "If you don't tell me the truth, I can't help you. Talk to me!"

Neal closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again, blue and guileless and compelling. "What color?"

"What?" Peter frowned in confusion. He was pretty sure Neal wasn't asking about his eyes.

"The paint. What color was the paint?" Neal got up and paced the room, to the faded poster on the Geneva Convention and the Rights of Detainees, and back again.

Peter watched him move. "I've only seen the list of items seized, not the physical evidence," he said. "The report didn't mention colors. Why?"

"The traces of paint on the brushes are ochre and Naples yellow," said Neal, with utter certainty. "_Femme aux Bras Croisés _is from Picasso's blue period."

Peter groaned. "Don't do this, Neal." He could feel the sticky strands of a con being spun around him.

"Don't tell you the truth?" Neal sat down again and laid his hands flat on the table. "Listen, I admit it. I made a copy of the Haustenberg for the Channing Museum and gave the original back to Julianna. Her grandmother was the girl in the picture—Julianna still has the locket, and Haustenberg meant her to keep the painting always."

"You did what?" Peter covered his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Neal! What the hell were you thinking? Oh, don't answer that. I know, I know. Some girl comes along with a pretty face and a sob story, and you can't resist stepping in and playing knight errant, never mind that you're working for the FBI. Never mind that you're on probation." He scowled, trying to stay mad, but he couldn't. Neal was a reckless romantic, but that was part of what made him Neal Caffrey, the man Peter loved. And it wasn't Neal's fault he was a rookie when it came to this side of law enforcement. It took years for cops to learn not to care about every waif and stray who came their way. Some never learned—Peter's current predicament being a case in point. He dropped his hand. "Wait a minute, the curator from the Channing verified the portrait. He wasn't exactly the sentimental type. How'd you get him to go along with it?"

"I'm sure he had his reasons," said Neal, and then ducked his head. He rubbed a smudge from the table with his thumb, then looked up. "I threatened to expose the fact that he'd illegally acquired the painting in the first place. The point is, the paint on the brushes is from the _Young Girl with Locket_. That's the only painting I've done since I got out."

"The only painting?" Peter repeated.

"I swear," said Neal, raising his hands. "Not even a birthday card. I swear on my grandmother's grave." His foot nudged up against Peter's ankle.

That didn't rule out stocks, bonds, or a multitude of other possible forgeries, but it didn't really matter anymore. Peter shook his head. "Well, we can't tell the judge that—somehow, I don't think confessing to another crime is your ticket out of here." He watched Neal's hands spread on the table in front of him, and tried to decide on a course of action, then sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. "Can I trust Haversham?"

Neal's eyebrows flew up again, but he just said, "Yes."

Peter pushed his chair back and stood up, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. "Okay, good."

"Wait, you're taking my word on it?" Neal's eyes widened.

"Yeah," said Peter. "You want to change your answer?"

"No." Neal got to his feet too, facing him across the table. "Do you know how to contact him?"

Peter dug in his pocket and brought out Neal's cell phone, which he'd lifted from his personal effects. "I'm guessing he's in your contact list."

The surprised reaction that elicited was oddly satisfying. Neal almost looked like his usual self.

"Under Thomas Edison," he said.

Peter grinned, despite everything. Trust Neal to have code names in his phone. "What am I listed under—Paul Revere?"

An answering smile lit Neal's face, but it faded just as quickly, and Peter couldn't hold back anymore. He sidestepped the table—"Get over here."—and hauled Neal into his arms, hugging the breath out of him. For all of two seconds, it was like embracing a marble statue, but then Neal melted, his hands coming up so he was holding Peter just as tight. He was too thin, but his body was hot and strong. His soft shirt wrinkled under Peter's fingers, and he smelled of cologne and skin. His breath feathered across Peter's neck, making Peter flush with desire and embarrassment. Blindly, he turned his head a fraction and pressed his lips to Neal's temple.

"How much beer?" murmured Neal, with a tremor of laughter.

Peter smiled against his forehead. "Not that much."

It took all the self-control he possessed to let go and step back, and then he could barely meet Neal's eye. His body thrummed with the need to protect him, to keep him close. The thought of leaving him here, even if it was only overnight, was like a tourniquet around his heart. But there was nothing else to be done. It was Ruiz's arrest. Peter needed proof if he was going to clear Neal's name.

"Uh." Peter scratched the back of his neck. "Elizabeth sends her love. She wanted to come herself, but I told her it wouldn't look good."

"Okay." Neal swallowed. "Give her my love, too." Their gazes locked, and declarations hovered unspoken in the air between them.

Finally, Peter couldn't take it anymore. He looked away, straightened his tie. "Your arraignment's tomorrow morning. You've got a lawyer?"

Neal nodded. "Haversham's sorting it out."

"He's not going to represent you himself, is he?" Peter had a moment's panic. There was no way Haversham was a qualified attorney, and if Neal pulled some kind of stunt before the judge, they were doomed.

But Neal seemed confident. "He has contacts."

"Okay, well, I'd better—" He gestured toward the door, took a couple of steps in that direction, then stopped and turned. "I'll get you out," he promised. "You're not going back to prison."

Neal gave him a strained smile. "If anyone can do it, you can."

"Yeah." And with that weight on his shoulders, Peter left, his brain already spinning, figuring out his next move.

 

* * *

 

## Evidence to the Contrary

 

**1.**

Elizabeth was only halfway through her sashimi at B Flat when Peter called. She left the rest and a ten dollar tip, and went to pick him up, running three yellow lights to get there.

Peter was waiting at the curb with a large, flat parcel and a paper cup of FBI coffee. He sat the package in the foot well of the backseat and got in. He seemed less angry and frustrated than he had earlier, and more businesslike and determined. Elizabeth wasn't sure if that boded good or ill.

"How is he?"

Peter fastened his seatbelt. "He says he didn't do it."

"Do you believe him?" She tried to sound neutral. Her instincts told her to trust Neal, but she couldn't plead his case without knowing the facts.

"It doesn't matter what I believe." Peter finished his coffee and crumpled the cup. "If I'm going to clear his name, I need to be able to prove it."

El nodded, her heart going out to both men: Neal was locked away, inaccessible and alone, and Peter was struggling with conflicting loyalties—to Neal and to the law. Without asking, El drove down to Battery Park where she and Peter could talk. They sat in the car, looking out at the shadowy trees, the bundled-up tourists walking past, and Peter filled her in on the charges and the evidence, and what Neal had told him about the portrait. Once, he stopped short and said, "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Shhh," she said, taking his hand. "It's okay." And he went on. When he'd talked himself out, she asked, "Did he do it?"

"It looks bad, El. He has motive, opportunity and a record." Peter shook his head. "Ruiz has constructed a pretty good case."

"That doesn't mean he's guilty," El pointed out. "What about John Mitchell?"

"Who?"

"Dana's husband. The Iraqi gold? There were fingerprints and even DNA evidence, but he didn't do it. And didn't Neal say the paint on the brushes was the wrong color?"

"Mitchell wasn't a convicted felon," said Peter heavily, "and I'm pretty sure strong-arming the curator of the Channing into confessing that he falsely verified a Haustenberg wouldn't actually get Neal out of trouble."

"Right." She looked over her shoulder at the parcel in the back seat. "Is that the Picasso?"

"It's best if I don't answer that," he said. That was Peter in a nutshell: trying to protect her, trying to keep everyone safe.

Elizabeth looked at the fluorescent lights of the Staten Island ferry terminal, passersby oblivious to the impossible knot of problems that faced her and Peter and Neal. A teenage couple held hands, laughing and leaning on each other, and the sight made El's throat ache. She swallowed hard and turned back to Peter. "You have a plan," she guessed.

"I have a place to start." Peter let out a long slow breath. "El, I promised him I'd get him out of there, and to do that, I may have to—resort to unorthodox measures. It's a risk, and it could come back to bite me in the ass."

His resolve took her breath away, filled her with hope and trepidation. What if the worst happened? She could end up with both men behind bars. But Peter knew what he was doing—he wouldn't let it come to that. She touched his cheek and gave him her blessing. "Do whatever you have to do."

When she leaned in to kiss him, she caught a faint hint of Neal's cologne and her throat closed up again. She put her hand on Peter's lucky tie and hoped like hell it would live up to its promise. "Bring him home."

Peter kissed her back, hard and quick, his focus already moving forward. "I'm going to need your car, and I probably won't make it home tonight," he said. "Do you want me to call you a cab?"

She searched his face for signs of inebriation. "Are you okay to drive?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Anne said I could stay over—I'll call Bethany in the morning and ask her to feed Satchmo." She started up the car and headed for Anne's tiny midtown apartment. "Does Neal have a lawyer? I can ask Anne if she'll represent him."

"He says he's got that covered, but I'll let you know." Peter shook his head, but didn't explain further, and Elizabeth shivered. Usually when she thought about Peter's job and the heavy machinery of the justice system, it was a comfort; it kept violent and unscrupulous people off the streets and made the world safer for ordinary people as they went about their daily lives.

But now that Neal was at the mercy of the system, it felt monolithic, impersonal and unrelenting. El felt she should be able to appeal to someone for understanding, explain that Neal was a good man underneath. He may not subscribe to the letter of the law, but she was certain he wouldn't knowingly hurt anyone, and he belonged with them—her and Peter—not in prison.

As she pulled up outside Anne's apartment block, she wondered how many other convicts had wives or mothers who felt the same way.

 

**2\. **

Haversham picked up on the fifth ring, just as Peter was starting to lose hope and cast about for another plan. "I need your help," he said bluntly.

"Agent Peter Jamison Burke?" Haversham sounded half-asleep.

"Call me Peter—it's less of a mouthful. Where are you?" He was already heading uptown to June's in anticipation of the answer, and he wasn't disappointed.

"Hi," said Haversham, when he answered the door. "Nice tie. Coffee?"

"Yeah." Peter lay the forged Picasso on the table and took off his coat. "I need to know who would want to frame Neal, and I need to know who painted this." He unwrapped the painting. It wasn't big—just two by two and a half feet—and the wide wooden frame made it seem smaller.

Haversham turned on several lamps, put on some cotton gloves and placed the painting on an easel to examine it. After a few moments, he whistled. "This is good work. You rarely see this kind of craftsmanship these days. I take it it's evidence. How did you—?"

"That's not important," interrupted Peter, and saw Haversham register that with raised eyebrows. He hoped to God Neal was right about Haversham. "Do you know of anyone who could have pulled it off?"

Haversham studied the painting, lips pursed. "I can only think of four artists with the talent for this kind of work: Kessler, Huang, Ervine and one other who is currently being detained by the FBI."

"Did he do it?" asked Peter. He waved legalities aside. "Off the record. I need to know. It makes no difference to me—I'm still going to clear his name. I just want to know if I'm going to have to lie to do it." He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, appalled at having stated his position so plainly to a man he hardly knew. But the aroma of the coffee evoked images of Neal sitting on the patio in his pajamas, relaxed and tempting. Laughing up at him. When it came down to it, that was all that mattered.

Peter downed a cup and poured himself another. "Well?"

"Attorney-client privilege prevents me from revealing any information I may or may not have pertaining to my client's involvement in the crime," said Haversham, and Peter felt a clutch of doubt. If Neal was guilty—more importantly, if he was still lying to him—Peter was in big trouble and there was every chance Elizabeth would get caught up in it too.

Peter kept his poker face on. "Off the record," he repeated. "Neal said I could trust you."

Haversham's gaze sharpened. "I guess his feelings for you aren't hopelessly unrequited after all. I'm surprised."

Peter blushed despite himself. "Can we stick to the case at hand, please? If we can't get the charges dropped before the arraignment tomorrow, he may have to go to trial and that'll take months." Not to mention that there was no way Hughes would let him interfere with an Organized Crime case. He had to find an answer fast.

Haversham held up his hands in surrender. "He didn't do it. Or, if he did, he had some reason to keep it hidden from me, but—" He took another look at the painting and shook his head decisively. "No. He didn't do it."

Peter sagged with relief. "Will you help me find out who did?"

"I'd need to take the painting to my lab so I can run some tests." Haversham reached for his jacket, apparently assuming Peter would let him abscond with the forged Picasso. As if.

"I can't let it out of my sight," said Peter, firmly. "It's evidence in a criminal investigation. If it goes missing, there'll be hell to pay."

Haversham opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Off the record?"

"Fine." Peter carefully wrapped up the painting and took one last look around the room. Neal's hat was on the dresser, the bed unmade, yesterday's _New York Times_ folded neatly on the armchair. Peter rubbed his eyes, wishing he could turn back the clock to this morning, go back and not fight with Neal. Go back and challenge Ruiz's investigation and prevent this whole mess from happening in the first place. If wishes were horses. He turned to the door. "Let's go."

In the car on the way to Haversham's lab, Peter reiterated his other question. "Who would want to frame Neal?"

"Other than the FBI?" Haversham tilted his head. The streetlights reflected off his glasses. "No one. Neal makes friends, not enemies."

"No one at all?" Peter turned right toward Queens, following directions. "There must be someone who doesn't like him. Some woman's husband, a mark who got cheated out of his fortune—"

"Not really," said Haversham, "unless you count—It's second on the left."

"Unless you count who?" Peter pulled up outside a row of storage units. "Wait, this is your lab?"

"Home, sweet home." Haversham took out a bunch of keys and dealt with the three padlocked bolts, then reached inside to switch on the light. There were four bare bulbs, but only two of them worked.

"Add light bulbs to your shopping list," said Peter, looking around. The back wall was stacked five or ten feet deep with a haphazard assortment of boxes, right up to the roof. In front of those, there was a limp-looking brown couch draped with a floral comforter and two pillows, a battered old Vespa with a helmet, a coffee maker and a collection of liquor bottles clustered beside a small fridge. There was a counter with a sink, a microwave and a stack of dirty dishes, and along one wall was a workbench littered with bottles, paints, papers and tools. The whole place smelled of paint and acetone, mildew and bad coffee.

On a wooden chair next to the workbench lay four copies of a clothbound book, all with their covers removed. Peter put the Picasso on the bench, on a pile of papers, and picked up a copy of _The Chase and Capture of a Master Forger: a case study_ by Lauren Cruz. "Should I ask?"

Haversham took it out of his hands and put it back on the chair with the others. "Neal can't do bindings—he's too much of a perfectionist."

"That's a problem?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

Haversham shrugged. "He's a bibliophile. He can never resist the temptation to clean them up. It's pretty hard to explain to a librarian why the dilapidated book you checked out is in pristine condition when you return it."

Peter slung his coat over the back of the chair and immediately regretted it. It was cold in here. "And the reason you had to take the bindings off in the first place is—"

"Not pertinent," said Haversham. "I thought we were on the clock. Do you want answers to the many questions posed by my Aladdin's cave of wonders, or do you want to clear Neal's name?"

"You're right." Peter sat down on the couch and promptly sneezed. "It can wait. You said there was someone who might want to set Neal up."

Haversham tossed him a packet of antihistamine tablets and said, "We have evidence that suggests Kate's in trouble. A man with a ring is controlling her, and he wants something from Neal. We don't know what."

Of course. It had to be about Kate, the axis of Neal's world. Peter suppressed a twinge of naked jealousy and glanced at his own plain gold wedding ring. "A ring is hardly a defining characteristic. What kind of evidence?"

While Haversham went to one of the many open boxes in the unit and rummaged in it, Peter read the use-by date on the antihistamines and put them aside. Even if they weren't two years past their expiration date, combining them with the residual alcohol and adrenaline in his system and all the coffee he'd drunk in the last two hours probably wasn't a great idea.

Haversham thrust a photo into his hand, and Peter stared at Kate's grainy black and white face. "I've seen half of this before, weeks ago when Neal had just got out. Just the Kate half, not the hand."

"Neal showed it to you then?" Haversham sounded disapproving. "He can't have been thinking clearly. So, is the ring ringing any bells?"

Peter frowned at the photo. "No." Except there _was_ something familiar about it. "I'd like to run it through the FBI's database—see if we get any matches. But first—"

He looked pointedly at the Picasso.

Haversham rolled up his sleeves, cleared a space on the bench and got to work, beginning the longest two and a half hours of Peter's life as he, by turns, worried about Neal, watched Haversham conduct his tests and studied the picture of Kate and the be-ringed hand. Eventually his eyes refused to stay open and he surrendered to sleep.

He was woken at three-thirty by an exclamation of victory. "I've got it."

Peter sat up, blinking. There was a split second of incomprehension—where was he? Where was Elizabeth? Neal?—and then memory returned, along with an awareness that his back ached and he couldn't breathe through his nose. He pushed the comforter aside. "A name?"

"Initials." Haversham beckoned him over and handed Peter a loupe. "Whoever made this copy signed it." He had a UV lamp trained on the painting, and he pointed to where the woman's hair met the back of her neck.

"HW," read Peter. "Who's HW?"

"It might be HM, MH or WH," said Haversham. He turned back to the painting and gave its frame an affectionate pat. "It could be in mirror writing or upside down."

Peter ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. "That's too many options. Can't we narrow it down?" They didn't have time to follow a dozen leads.

"It's a start," said Haversham.

"Maybe we're looking at this all wrong," said Peter. The sleep fog was starting to recede.

"How do you mean?"

He went and poured himself a cup of over-brewed coffee. "They didn't find Neal's name with the painting—only his address," he said slowly, the suspicion taking shape as he spoke. "And Neal isn't the only artist living under that roof."

 

**3\. **

Neal lay on his bed in the cell with his arm slung over his face, trying to tune out the sounds and smells around him. The guard last night had told him he should be grateful one of the agents upstairs had put in a word for him or he'd be sharing, and Neal was clinging to that gratitude with both hands. He pictured Elizabeth's warm smile, Peter's worried frown. The contrast made him clench his fists, fighting despair.

It had been hard enough the first time, with Kate waiting on the outside—patiently at first, and then with increasing petulance—but Peter and Elizabeth had each other; they'd move on, perhaps smile nostalgically at his birthday cards. They'd forget.

He tried to tell himself that was a good thing, best for everyone concerned. June had been kind, taking him in, taking him under her wing. The whole household had welcomed him—June and Cindy and June's driver Maurice, even Maria. Neal wasn't a martyr by nature, but he couldn't set the FBI on them. For all he knew, the only reason the Feds had seen any significance in the address was because of its association with him. No, he couldn't let June down, which meant he couldn't let Peter clear his name. And if Neal had figured out who'd forged the Picasso, it was only a matter of time before Peter reached the same conclusion.

Neal was going to have to confess. There was no way around it.

He heard footsteps and the sound of a buzzer. "Your attorney's here," said the guard. A different guard from last night.

"Thanks." There was no point dragging his heels.

The guard took Neal to the interview room, the same one as last night, but it wasn't Mozzie or Moz's lawyer friend Conrad Statler waiting for him, and it wasn't Peter. It was a stranger in an olive-green business suit, a short woman with red hair and great cheekbones.

She stood up when he came in, and waited until the door closed behind the guard, then looked at him frankly. "Wow, Elizabeth wasn't kidding." She shook his hand, and added drily, "I'm happily and monogamously married, so don't try anything."

"Excuse me?" Neal gave her his best innocent look, waiting for things to become clear.

"Bethany Damrosch." She sat down again, and took out a leather-bound personal organizer and a fountain pen. "Elizabeth Burke sent me, since she couldn't come herself. The things I do for that girl!"

Neal was still playing catch-up. "Are you a lawyer?"

He'd told Peter he had that covered, but perhaps Elizabeth had decided to take matters into her own hands.

"My sister is. I used her card," said Bethany, looking pleased with herself.

Scratch that theory. Neal glanced from her face to her organizer and back again. "Why?"

She shook her head as if he were being deliberately obtuse. "I told you. El couldn't come herself, and she needs to know how to contact the owner of—" She checked some notes scrawled in the back cover of her notebook. "—_Young Girl with Locket_."

He must have fallen down a rabbit hole. "Why doesn't she ask Peter?"

"Hey, I'm just the messenger." Bethany shrugged.

Neal sighed, feigning reluctance, and told her to contact the Channing, but Bethany cut right through his performance. "No, the other owner of the other _Young Girl with Locket_."

"I don't know what you mean," said Neal, warily. "The Haustenberg belongs to the Channing." The last thing he needed was for the Haustenberg forgery to be added to his charges.

"That's not what El said." Bethany leaned forward and murmured, "She did say I might have to hold a Smith and Wesson .500 revolver to your head before you'd talk, but I'm hoping it won't come to that. I'm not much of a gun nut either."

Neal hid his surprise, wondering exactly how much Elizabeth had told her, but he obediently gave her Julianna Laszlo's address. He trusted Elizabeth, and his situation couldn't get much worse. Besides, he needed a messenger. "Can you do something for me?"

Bethany tilted her head and waited.

"Ask Elizabeth to call Peter off. He's risking too much by pursuing this. It's a waste of time. And ask her to call June too, and tell her they know I forged the Picasso, but the evidence won't hold up." He leaned forward over the table. "They may want to search my room again—if they do, she shouldn't try to stop them. I'm okay with it."

"El said you didn't do it," said Bethany, narrowing her eyes.

The vote of confidence tested his resolve, but he stayed true. "Elizabeth doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does. Just make sure June gets the message. She'll know what to do." He sat back. "And send my love to Cindy," he added casually.

"Cindy, huh?" Bethany propped her head on her hand and studied him. "You know, Cindy aside, you're not at all what I expected."

Neal looked down at himself. He'd slept in his clothes and hadn't had a chance to shave, but he didn't think he was unforgivably shabby, despite that. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's just—you seem like a nice guy."

Neal smiled without humor. "Appearances can be deceiving."

 

**4.**

Peter went straight from Haversham's "lab" to the office, arriving before anyone had even turned the lights on. He returned the Picasso to Evidence, washed his face in the men's room and then spent two and a half hours searching the FBI database for matches on the initials they'd found on the painting. That turned up more than a dozen names, but none of them were known art forgers. Searches on Kessler, Huang and Ervine, and on the ring from the photo were no help either.

As soon as Hughes arrived, Peter got two cups of coffee and barged into his office. Hughes was still taking off his coat and gloves. Peter put one cup of coffee on his desk and took a sip from the other. "Neal didn't do it. If we drop the charges against him, he can help us find out who did."

Hughes hooked his coat on the coat stand and took a mouthful of coffee, grimacing as he swallowed. "This is not your case, Peter. Leave the investigation to Organized Crime."

Peter shook his head. "Caffrey's an asset we can't afford to lose. Without him, it would've taken us years to catch the Dutchman and Govat. You know how long we've been after those guys."

"And in exchange for Neal's assistance, you want to give him a license to commit forgery whenever it suits him?" asked Hughes. "The Bureau doesn't work like that and you know it."

Peter pressed his lips together. If Hughes was worried about politics or publicity, he wouldn't give an inch, but Peter couldn't afford to stand down. There was no way he could leave this in Ruiz's hands. "Whoever forged that painting signed it with their initials," Peter told Hughes. "HW. Or it could be MH, WH or HM. One of those. I found them last night and I've been searching the database—I've got a list of names."

"Are any of them likely suspects?" asked Hughes, but he didn't wait for Peter to answer. "You're letting your feelings distort the facts, Peter. Caffrey is a convicted art forger. We've given him too much latitude, and now he's made a fool of us. What kind of sentence is he serving when he can swan about from Central Park to Grand Central Station? He's using you and he's using his position with the Bureau, and if we don't put a stop to it now, it's going to end in some very uncomfortable questions being asked upstairs and some very ugly headlines on the front page of the _Times_."

"You've been monitoring Neal's tracker?" asked Peter, distracted, but before Hughes could reply, the phone on his desk rang.

"Yeah?" He took the handset to the window and looked out. "Joseph, what's going—? All right, calm down now. What—? When? I'll deal with it." He hung up and looked at Peter. "You logged out evidence on Ruiz's case?"

"Yeah, I told you." Peter put down his coffee before he spilled it. "I had to examine the painting. That's how I found the forger's initials—"

"That's enough, Peter." said Hughes, straightening his shoulders and giving Peter a gimlet stare. "If I order you to drop this, will you do as I say?"

"I can't let this one slide," said Peter, too tired and frustrated to be diplomatic. "I'm sorry. I know Neal didn't do it and I'm going to prove it."

"You're leaving me no choice," Hughes told him. "Agent Peter Burke, you're hereby suspended until further notice."

"What?" Peter looked around, half expecting to see another Peter Burke, the real subject of the reprimand. There was no one. "You're suspending me?" He hadn't dreamed it would come to this, and it was a disaster. Hughes would reinstate him eventually, he knew, but in the meantime, being suspended meant he'd have no access to the Bureau's resources. He couldn't search the databases or get access to the evidence against Neal. He wouldn't have Cruz and Jones at his disposal. He couldn't use his badge as a calling card. He was useless.

"If you're going to openly defy orders, then it's my only recourse. You know that." Hughes didn't look happy about it—that was something, but it wasn't enough.

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "You're making a mistake." But Hughes looked stern, and after a moment, Peter surrendered to the inevitable and handed over his badge.

Before Hughes could deliver the expected platitudes, Jones knocked on the door. "Peter, Julianna Laszlo's here to make a statement."

"The girl with the Haustenberg?" Peter frowned. "What kind of statement?"

"I don't know," said Jones. "She'll only talk to you."

Peter turned to Hughes, silently pleading for permission to find out what was going on, and Hughes sighed. "Under my supervision. Come on."

All three of them went to Peter's office, where Ms. Laszlo was waiting. Peter introduced Hughes, and then said, "What's this about?"

She smiled slightly, despite the tension in the room. "It's regarding the copy of the Haustenberg portrait that Neal Caffrey painted for me."

"He _what_?" squawked Hughes.

Her smile faded, and she explained earnestly, "He knew that the portrait had a lot of sentimental value to me, so when the original went back to the Channing Museum, he made me a copy."

Peter opened his mouth to ask if Elizabeth had put her up to this, but Hughes was standing right next to him, his face turning an alarming shade of red. "There's no law that says Neal can't make a copy of a painting, so long as he doesn't try to pass it off as the original," Peter said instead. He looked Julianna dead in the eye. "Did he?"

"No," she said, and Peter knew she was lying but he didn't care. If he had to, he'd take her false statement to save Neal. It might be the last useful thing he could do.

He took Hughes aside. "Organized Crime found recently used paintbrushes in Neal's room, and they're using those as evidence that he forged the Picasso, but the colors are all wrong. The paint on the brushes matches the Haustenberg portrait."

Hughes shook his head. "How many times do I have to say it, Peter? This is not your case. Jones will take the girl's statement, and I'll see that he forwards it to Ruiz. There's nothing more for you to do here."

Peter scowled, but Hughes didn't budge. There was nothing else for it. Peter sighed and turned to the door.

Cruz was hovering outside—word traveled fast when the walls were made of glass. "I'm sorry, Peter."

"It's not your fault," he said, and added under his breath, "Keep me posted."

 

**5\. **

The last time Elizabeth visited June's place, she hadn't paid much attention to the house; she'd had an impression of grandeur and beauty, but mostly she'd been focused on Neal, whether he'd tell her the truth, and if so, what that truth would be.

This time, she was very conscious of the house, its elegant lines decorated with rich furnishings and antiques. The maid took her coat and asked her to wait in the drawing room, where Elizabeth prowled around, admiring the paintings, the polished mahogany table, the perfectly preserved brocade of the chairs. She started when she realized someone was watching her from the doorway. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right, dear," said the older woman. She had a pug dog under her arm. "This is Wilson, and you must be Elizabeth Burke."

"And you are June," said Elizabeth. She came forward, hand outstretched, but somehow found herself kissing June's cheek rather than simply shaking hands as she'd intended. Her righteous indignation at Neal being a scapegoat for someone else's crime evaporated; June was delicious.

June rang a bell and asked Maria to bring coffee and cookies, and they settled in on a couch. "To what do I owe the pleasure, my dear?"

"The FBI found your address on a scrap of paper with a forged Picasso," said Elizabeth bluntly. "And then they jumped to the obvious conclusion and arrested Neal. He asked me to tell you that if they try to search his room again, you shouldn't stop them, but—"

"Oh, my dear," June interrupted. "That's terrible! Of course he didn't do it."

"Well, no, but someone did." Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. "I hope you won't think me rude, but isn't your granddaughter an art student?"

June looked amused. "Cindy's a bright child with a promising future, but she's not there yet. She doesn't have the patience for it. At the moment she could barely manage a Mondrian."

She didn't seem overly troubled, and El began to hope. "You know who did it."

"Milo Hawthorne," said June with relish. "He was an old friend of my late husband Byron, and a terrible poker player. Byron commissioned eight copies of works by famous artists as payment for his various debts. I had the _Femme aux Bras Croisés_ hanging on my bedroom wall for nearly three decades—a lovely piece."

"Are you still in touch with Mr. Hawthorne?" asked Elizabeth.

June stroked her pug's ears. "He passed away in 1992. It broke my heart to sell the painting, but you know how it is—the upkeep on a house this size. But I sold it as a copy, not a forgery. My driver Maurice brokered the deal for me."

"A copy—that's perfectly legal, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, relief making her dizzy. "Would you be willing to explain to the FBI what happened?"

"Of course," said June. "I'm appalled that Neal's been so inconvenienced."

Elizabeth swallowed a hysterical laugh—_inconvenienced_ was a poor description of the last fourteen hours' frantic worry and dismay—and called Peter. His phone went straight to voicemail. "Perhaps you could talk to Peter's boss," said El.

"Or perhaps we should take a little trip downtown and sort this out properly," suggested June, just as the maid brought in a tray of coffee and macaroons. June thanked her, and said to Elizabeth, "After our refreshments."

"Isn't it a coincidence," asked El, between sips of wonderful coffee, "Neal being an art, uh, connoisseur and your friend having produced all those beautiful copies? Most people don't meet one derivative artist in their lifetime, let alone two."

"I knew as soon as I saw Neal that he was special." June's eyes twinkled. "It would seem I have a type. How about you?"

El felt her face flush. "I think I have two types," she said, wryly. "I'm still figuring out how that works."

June laughed under her breath. "I think Byron would have liked you. Neal certainly does. You remind me a little of myself when I was young. May I give you a small piece of advice?"

Elizabeth nodded, curious.

"Don't give too much weight to respectability," she said. "I've seen banks fold and fly-by-nights prosper, as well as the other way around—there are no guarantees in this life. You just have to learn to trust your instincts." She patted El's hand. "I can tell you have excellent instincts, my dear."

She said it without any hint of judgment, so that it was impossible to object. Elizabeth didn't even try. She sat in June's elegant drawing room with the morning sun slanting in the window, and drank perfect coffee and made chitchat, waiting as patiently as she could until June was ready to come with her to rescue Neal.

 

* * *

 

## Where Angels Fear to Tread

 

After the FBI dropped the charges and even found forensic evidence that indicated Joey Santora had forged the authentication documents for the Picasso himself, Neal was still stuck in his holding cell for the weekend. The FBI cells weren't designed for long-term accommodation, but he turned down the option of transferring back to prison—it was better to be somewhere temporary, close at hand. But Elizabeth didn't visit and there was no sign of Peter either.

Mozzie brought him a change of clothes on Saturday morning.

"What's going on?" Neal asked. "Can't you get me out of here? Please tell me they haven't cancelled my parole arrangement." He was actually starting to miss the tracker, and definitely the freedom that went with it.

Mozzie steepled his hands. "They won't release you until your Fed's back onboard."

"Back onboard?" Neal frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He was suspended. Apparently there's a lot of paperwork involved in un-suspending someone," said Mozzie, as if he were describing the weather or real estate prices.

Peter suspended? That couldn't be right. Peter was a cornerstone of the Bureau's New York office—Hughes wouldn't be stupid enough to cut him loose. "Suspended for what?"

Mozzie gave him a pitying look. "And here I thought you were supposed to be the one with quicksilver for brains."

Neal chewed on that for a moment. No wonder Peter hadn't visited, if his worst fears were eventuating—Neal was dragging him down, undermining his career and his security. Peter must have decided it was time to cool it and back off. "Is he mad?"

"I don't know," said Mozzie. "I haven't checked his Facebook status."

There was something in the way he said it. "But you've spoken to him."

Mozzie sighed. "Yes, all right, I've seen him. Apparently Hughes is watching both of you. He's suspicious that you're 'too closely involved'. He was monitoring your GPS before all this went down." He flicked open the locks on his briefcase. "Peter asked me to give you this."

He sent a folded piece of gray paper sliding across the table.

Neal caught it, but didn't look down. "'Peter'?" he echoed, raising his eyebrows.

Mozzie closed his briefcase with a snap. "You've got me fraternizing with G-men. I may have to acquire a hair shirt, or—I wonder if you can get sackcloth and ashes on eBay."

Neal grinned and glanced down at the neatly creased paper in his hand. It was a small origami elephant, tusks and all.

"They seem nice," Mozzie continued. "If you're determined to be domesticated, you could do worse."

Neal ran his thumb across the elephant's folds and hardly heard him.

 

* * *

 

  
Peter, Jones and Hughes were present for his release on Monday afternoon. Peter was wearing the same old suit, along with the tie Neal had given him. The disharmony didn't jar as much now.

"Jones, if you'd do the honors," Peter said, and Neal obligingly put his foot on one of the chairs in the reception area, so that Jones could fit a new tracking bracelet. Peter was looking anywhere but at Neal's face.

Hughes shook Neal's hand. "No hard feelings, I hope."

"You guys were just doing your jobs," said Neal, keeping his handshake and his expression respectful. It wouldn't help anyone if he made a fuss about Peter's suspension.

"And now it's time for you to get back to doing yours," said Peter, clapping him on the shoulder still without meeting his eye. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

Hughes cleared his throat. "As agreed."

"Yeah," said Peter. "As agreed."

Neal raised his eyebrows but neither of them deigned to explain, so he bit his tongue. Hughes and Jones went back upstairs and Peter led Neal outside, where Neal had to stop and take some deep breaths of crisp New York City air. He hadn't been outside in about ninety-six hours.

Peter had gone on ahead and was standing, looking back, waiting for him. He seemed edgy and awkward.

Neal grinned at him. "That suit is still a travesty."

Peter smiled, tension easing, and started walking again. "You knew what I was like when you bought me the tie." They reached the car and he held the passenger door open for Neal, before going around and sliding into the driver's seat. He gave Neal back his cell phone and said, "Fine. I'll retire the suit."

He put his hands on the wheel, but made no move to start the car.

"You can't now," Neal told him. "It's part of your cover."

Peter cast him a suspicious look. "What cover?"

"Drab yet brilliant FBI agent, by the book, beyond reproach," Neal told him. He itched to reach out and touch him, but wasn't sure if it was safe to bridge the chasm. Peter wasn't giving him any encouragement, and around them, the city teemed with activity, cars and buses and people hurrying past in seemingly random combinations. Anyone could be watching. "What did you agree with Hughes?"

Peter leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "He doesn't want you back at June's. If she's selling copies of famous paintings, however legally, it's too good an opportunity for you, and he doesn't want you tempted to take advantage of it."

Neal opened his mouth to argue, then decided there was no point. He served at the pleasure of the FBI—it had only been a matter of time before someone decided he was having too much fun. "So what are my options?"

Peter looked at him, brown eyes warm and direct. "You have three alternatives: you can go back to the hotel where I took you when you first got out, you can come home with me and El—"

"That one," said Neal, immediately. "I'll take it."

"—or you can cut your tracker and run."

"Peter—"

"If you run, I won't find you." Peter's gaze didn't waver. "I don't want you getting into—anything—out of some misplaced sense of obligation. It's your choice."

Freedom on a silver platter, and Neal turned it down without a second thought, aware only that Peter was willing to put his career on the line for him. "If I pick door number two, what about Hughes? I heard he was keeping tabs on us."

Peter nodded. "Elizabeth and I talked about that. We're prepared to risk it if you are."

"See, this is why you need your cover," said Neal, and reached for him, curled his fingers around the lapels of the reviled suit and dragged him into a kiss. He meant it to be brief, a taste of things to come, and Peter's hands came up and rested on Neal's shoulders as if to push him away, but heat flared between them, sudden and irresistible. Peter inhaled sharply and stroked down Neal's arms, over his wrists till he was covering his hands, pinning them to his chest. Neal, captured, felt Peter's heart thudding under his knuckles and forgot everything else.

He parted his lips against Peter's mouth, and Peter opened to him without hesitation, kissing back, pushy and unafraid, making Neal groan. He wanted more, wanted to run his hands all over him, wanted to strip them both naked and feast himself on Peter's body. He shifted, trying to get closer, but the seatbelt buckle jabbed him in the hip.

It was an unwelcome reminder of their surroundings. Neal pulled away, turned on and struggling for self-control. "We shouldn't—" His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

Peter stiffened and jerked back.

"Whoa, easy," said Neal, holding up both hands. "I just meant this isn't the place."

Peter took a shuddering breath. "Right." He looked around at the oblivious pedestrians. "You're right, that was—" He rubbed his face with both hands. "Stupid. Jesus!"

He dropped one arm to the steering wheel, getting his breath back and looking ridiculously disheveled from just kissing. Neal was pretty dazed himself, desire giving him tunnel vision.

"Take me home," he said.

"Yes." Peter took another deep breath, visibly collecting himself. "First we need to pick up El from Lincoln Center."

"Even better." Neal stretched his legs out, his body aching with anticipation, and then he looked Peter up and down. "You sure you're okay to drive?"

Peter gave him a mock glare. "What are you—Of course I'm okay to drive!" He started up the car and nearly reversed into a woman carrying a tray of takeout coffee. "Sorry," he called out the window, and then pointed at Neal. "Don't say a word."

Neal laughed out loud. A flustered Peter, a welcoming Elizabeth and a new home. This was going to be good.

 

* * *

 

  
It was still early, so they stopped off to collect Neal's things. June and Elizabeth had already packed his clothes ("They didn't have to do that." "Don't worry about it. I think it was an excuse for El to spend more time with June."), and he didn't have much else; some art supplies and toiletries. Peter looked at him sideways when he added the bottle to his box of possessions, but he didn't say anything.

"Do keep in touch, dear," said June, "and tell your friend he's welcome to stay over, if he needs somewhere to sleep."

"You are too good to be true," Neal told her, and kissed her cheek.

She put her hand on his arm and said, soberly, "Except for getting you locked up again. I'm truly sorry for that."

"It wasn't your fault." Neal squeezed her hand and then stepped back and flipped his hat onto his head and looked to Peter, who was carrying the box. "Shall we?"

Traffic was terrible. By the time they picked up Elizabeth, it was past seven-thirty and the urgency between him and Peter had faded to a low, insistent buzz of awareness, so Neal suggested they eat out.

"What happened to 'take me home'?" asked Peter. "If you're having second thoughts, we can make other arrangements. It doesn't have to be that fleabag place."

"No second thoughts," Neal told him. "Trust me."

Peter snorted softly, and Elizabeth said, "Dinner sounds good to me. It'll give us a chance to slow down and enjoy the ride."

Peter glanced from one to the other and surrendered with good grace, and Neal hid a grin. He had a feeling Elizabeth was going to be his co-conspirator on many fronts—Peter didn't stand a chance.

They went to a restaurant Elizabeth knew in Little Italy, and sat in the corner, crowded around a table for two, candle-light warming their faces. The food was excellent, but more than that, Neal felt free for the first time in over four years. He teased Peter about turning to 'Haversham' for help, and thanked Elizabeth for solving the case and freeing him.

"You know how you could pay me back?" asked Elizabeth, her eyes dark and shining.

Neal held her gaze. "Anything."

"Oh good." She gave him a bewitching smile. "I want to learn to play poker. June invited me to sit in on a game, but I'm terrible at bluffing. You'll teach me, won't you Neal?"

Peter groaned. "Great, turn my wife into a card sharp, why don't you." He shook his head despairingly, but there was a laughing twist to his mouth, and when Neal touched his knee under the table, Peter returned the gesture.

That killed the conversation. Neal froze, fighting inconvenient arousal, and Elizabeth glanced up from the dessert menu and surveyed them knowingly. "I think we should go home now," she said.

Peter's grip tightened on Neal's knee. "You ready for this?"

In answer, Neal hailed the waiter and asked for the check, but when it came, Peter intercepted and paid before Neal could stop him. Neal retaliated by lifting his car keys.

Peter didn't notice until they were outside. He checked his pockets with growing concern, until Neal jingled the keys and Elizabeth laughed.

"Oh-ho," said Peter. "You think you're driving?"

Neal gave him a look of pure innocence. "I thought the Taurus could take care of itself."

Peter shook his head. "You see that?" he appealed to Elizabeth. "We give him an inch, and he'll take us to the cleaners. We're doomed."

He seemed remarkably sanguine at the prospect, but the accusation still stung, grazing some of the shine off the evening. Neal moved into Peter and Elizabeth's path. "I would never—"

Peter pressed his finger to Neal's lips, silencing him, and then gave him a gentle shove toward the driver's door. "It's fine. Play chauffeur if you want to. Just get us home."

Elizabeth got into the passenger seat and Peter slid into the back next to Neal's box of stuff. "Oh, hey, Peter and I can make out while you drive," Elizabeth said, grinning. She twisted around to face Peter. "How about it?"

Neal reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips trail across her soft skin and down her neck. "Not if you want me to watch the road," he said.

She leaned into his touch and then reached across and clasped his neck, bringing their lips together just as Neal had kissed Peter earlier. Her mouth was voluptuous, full of promise, and Neal lost himself all over again, the knowledge that Peter was watching only adding to the thrill.

Elizabeth pulled away slowly, passion leaving no room for humor. "Hold that thought," she said, facing forward again, fastening her seatbelt.

"Neal?" said Peter from the backseat.

"Mmm." He cleared his throat and met Peter's gaze in the rearview mirror. It was dark in the car, but even so, there was no mistaking the intensity of his reaction. "Yeah?"

Peter leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Hurry up and drive."

 

* * *

 

## Gordian Knot

 

**1.**

Satchmo was waiting just inside the front door. Elizabeth, her arms full of Neal's art supplies, and her attention split between Peter and Neal behind her and what would happen when they all got upstairs, almost stepped on him.

"Hey, baby," she said, halting so abruptly that Neal bumped into her. He was carrying three bulging garment bags and an overnight case, and the case jostled her legs.

"Do you need to take him out?" he asked, not moving away.

"Can I get into my own house, please?" asked Peter from behind, sounding long-suffering and impatient, and El threw a grin over her shoulder and saw matching amusement on Neal's face. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lips curved and tempting, and the smudge of stubble on his jaw. The heat of his body made her flush.

"He needs to be fed, at least," she said of Satchmo, feeling breathless.

Neal stepped sideways, slung his suits over the arm of the couch and placed the case neatly against the wall. "Leave it to me."

He disappeared into the kitchen before El could reply, and Satchmo whined softly at her and turned tail to follow him.

Through the glass of the kitchen door, she saw the light come on, and she wondered if she was going to spend the rest of her life off-balance and aroused. Then Peter nudged her aside and kicked the door shut behind him. He had two large suitcases—the last of Neal's things.

"He has more clothes than you do," Peter said, and went upstairs to put the luggage in the guest room.

El set the box she was carrying on the dining table next to Peter's new origami book and went into the kitchen to see how Neal and Satchmo were faring.

Satchmo had his face buried in his food bowl, and Neal, tie hanging loose and shirt unbuttoned at the throat, was leaning on the counter, drinking a glass of water, his head tipped back. He stopped when she came in, and for a second he looked wild and beautiful and poised for flight, incongruous in their everyday kitchen. Her eyes went involuntarily to his ankle, the bump in his pants leg an oblique reminder that he was a felon, a genie in a tracking bracelet, come to turn Elizabeth's marriage upside-down. In their interactions thus far, it had been easy to forget, to treat him as a charming, unconventional man, Peter's partner, her friend. But now a finely tuned sequence of events had bypassed Peter's conscience and his caution, as well as El's own commonsense, and Neal was moving in. After the birthday cards, the failed escapes, the teasing and the incorrigible flirting, it was impossible not to wonder if this had been his goal all along.

Over the last ten years, her and Peter's life together had acquired an easy routine—familiar, satisfying, predictable. Now all bets were off—their nights, their weekends, their mornings would be cast into a new untested shape. It was absurd to have taken this step without trying it out—without even making love first, to see if the attraction held true—and yet they had all chosen this. She had chosen it. And she'd chosen it knowing Neal's connection with Peter had primacy; he liked her, certainly, and wanted her, but Peter was the mountain to his Mohammed.

As if to illustrate, Neal glanced over her shoulder. "Where's Peter?"

"Taking your bags upstairs." She went to him, and he put his water glass aside and faced her, still leaning on the counter. "To the guest room—we thought you should have a space of your own, if only for appearance's sake."

He threaded his fingers into her hair, his eyes blue and clear. "You're very kind."

El rested her hands on his chest. "You're hardly a charity case, Neal," she said, wryly.

"I just got out of jail," he reminded her, and a shadow touched his face that made her forget her reservations.

He belonged to them, to her and Peter, and he'd been rudely shut away, threatened with more years in prison. They'd nearly lost him. She cupped his face, then slid her arms around his neck and held him tightly. The hug was platonic, almost maternal, for one breath, two, and then his arms wrapped around her, molding her to him, and their bodies shifted together. Her heart thudded.

His thumb brushed her nipple, making her gasp, and he murmured something indistinct into her hair as his hands moved under her blouse, smoothed across her back, eclipsing everything else.

She pulled back a fraction and kissed him fiercely, already aching with desire, only vaguely aware of the sound of the door and Peter's low exclamation.

Neal's hands stilled, though. He broke off and looked past her with a gleam. "What took you so long?"

"El?"

That was Peter. She turned in Neal's arms, his hands staying under her blouse, trailing heat over her belly, making her knees weak.

Peter had taken off his jacket and tie, and he stood frozen, one hand still on the door, as Satchmo disappeared past him, tail waving in farewell.

El felt half guilty at starting without Peter, and half sure that she couldn't compete now that he and Neal could finally have each other. But Peter's gaze was fixed on her, not Neal. Asking permission. Trusting her to chart a safe course. Trusting her to say yes.

She could feel Neal waiting behind her. Now was the time to put her fantasies to the test.

She beckoned Peter over and kissed him, her husband, with lips still tingling and Neal's arms still around her. "Show me," she said, and slipped out from between them.

Peter and Neal stared at each other, the air crackled with electricity, and then there was a blur and their mouths came together, their bodies following. There was no finesse in their embrace—only hunger. Peter had spent the last month holding back, El knew. He'd tried to be responsible and careful, tried to protect them all. Now the dam burst, and he pushed Neal against the counter and covered him with his body.

"Peter. Oh, God," breathed Neal, his fingers splayed on Peter's cheek, need and devotion written in the lines of their bodies, in their harsh breaths and the way they seemed to be trying to devour each other.

Peter leaned his forehead against Neal's, pulling back far enough that he could start to release the buttons on Neal's shirt, his fingers fumbling in haste. Neal mirrored him, then paused, glancing across at Elizabeth, checking in with her even as Peter's hands roamed his chest.

El's hand was at her throat, her mouth dry, breasts throbbing. She wanted to smile encouragement, but couldn't, too overcome with desire and a solemn sense of rightness; they belonged together like this, the three of them. It should have always been this way. How had she thought, even for a second, that she'd feel excluded? Neal and Peter's love was mesmerizing and intoxicating, filling the room, and despite their obvious focus on each other, they loved her too. She could have either—or both—of them for the asking.

She stepped closer and helped Neal with Peter's shirt, taking Peter's hand and tackling the small buttons at his cuff, then drawing the pale blue fabric from his shoulders and pushing his undershirt up so she could kiss his chest.

Peter, heedless of his clothes' disarray, caught her wrist and pressed his lips to her palm, and on impulse, she slid her thumb into the wet heat of his mouth, reveling in his excitement. His gaze met hers, brimming with emotion, and he sucked her in.

Beside her, Neal swore under his breath and eased two fingers in too, curling them against El's thumb and Peter's tongue. The intimacy, coupled with the scent of their bodies and their obvious arousal, was incredible. El closed her eyes and pressed forward blindly, seeking relief. The next moment, Neal crushed her to his side, and Peter's arm encircled her too, his hand warm and somehow steadying on the nape of her neck. They were all together, all entwined.

 

**2\. **

Afterwards, Peter could never remember how they got to the bedroom. Perhaps Neal suggested it, or perhaps El guided them toward the stairs. All Peter knew was that by the time they got there, they were all half-undressed and Peter was at the center of an emotional and physical whirlwind that was making his pulse race. He'd known he loved Neal and Elizabeth, but he'd had no idea what it would mean to have both of their hands and mouths on him. To be able to hold them both and see them with each other. To be the subject of Neal Caffrey's passion.

Neal, who couldn't stop touching him, whose practiced hands knew how to drive a man crazy. Who somehow managed to balance his attention between Peter and El, making it look easy.

But when they reached the bed, Neal's smooth charm deserted him. He may have been flirtatious and debonair at dinner, may have stolen Peter's car keys and exchanged witty innuendo with Elizabeth on the drive home, and he may have been sexually adventurous in the past in gay _Paris_, but here, horizontal and half naked with his pants unfastened and the head of his cock dragging lightly against Peter's thigh as they kissed and moved together, Neal was as clumsy and gauche as Peter himself, all angles and elbows, and hands that trembled as they stroked down Peter's side and across his pants, over his erection.

Once upon a time, Neal Caffrey had been a puzzle to solve; now all the pieces were right here in Peter's arms.

Peter's heart swelled, and he hauled Neal on top of him and swept his fingers down the firm muscles of his back. "It's okay," Peter said, "I've got you."

Neal's hips hitched, his weight and the hard insistent nudge of his cock eliciting an embarrassing grunt from Peter. God, he needed them all to get naked.

El was working on it, peeling off her pantyhose and dropping them on the floor, unhooking her cream lace bra and freeing her breasts. Peter met her eye, grateful for her understanding. Neal was driving Peter out of his mind—the length of his body, his fervent attention demanding the lion's share of Peter's attention. But El knew, gave him a smile both sultry and sympathetic. "You are so beautiful together," she said huskily, her hand sliding up to cup the weight of her breast and toy with her nipple, her lips parted.

Peter tore his gaze away, only to find that Neal was staring at her too, rapt. Something shifted in Peter then, greed giving way to an unexpected state of grace, a desire that had less to do with attaining orgasm than being with the people he loved, treasuring every heartbeat, every brush of skin on skin.

"El?" he said, overcome by the change, and she was right there.

"Anything. You know that."

Peter looked at Neal.

"Anything," Neal echoed.

Peter kissed them, first Neal then El, deep swollen kisses. "Show me," he said, and angled his body, gently tipping Neal to the side, into El's arms. He watched as they came together, tangling limbs and mouths. As they stripped away clothes, piece by piece. Tendrils of El's hair spread across the pillows; Neal's biceps flexed as he held himself over her.

Peter rid himself of the last of his own clothes, touched himself and them, moved beyond words by the slow sensuous roll of their bodies, El soft and curved, Neal lean and muscled. And when their movements increased, when El's ankle hooked around Neal's calf just above the tracker, as she ground up against him, it was Peter who offered the condom.

Neal took it, fitted it while El panted, her arms flung above her head in abandon.

Almost before Neal was done, she urged him onto his back—nearly landing them both on the floor—and straddled him, sinking onto his cock, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, that familiar crease of concentration and arousal between her eyebrows. Neal murmured nonsense and Peter felt a bolt of triumph. They were joined now, all of them. Inextricably, irreversibly, Neal was theirs.

 

**3\. **

It was almost more than Neal could handle, all of it. He was raw, naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothes or skin. There was no hiding, here with Elizabeth over him, her thighs snug against his hips, her body exquisite, moving like a tide, edging him inch by inch to orgasm. Elizabeth who could see right through him at the best of times, to whom he couldn't lie.

And with Peter watching, too. They'd offered him everything he could want—a chance at freedom, a home, love—and for a moment, the thrum of his pulse felt like panic, but then El opened her eyes, looked down on him with such desire, such warm affection that he breathed again, settling back into his body, letting the reality of the room reassert itself—the white cotton sheets, the yielding mattress beneath them, the warm sounds and musk of their bodies. If Neal was going to lose himself, this place, Peter and Elizabeth's sanctum, was the place to do it.

Elizabeth tightened around him, sending pleasure arcing to the base of his spine and he gripped her hips reflexively, urging her on, dark heat gathering, closing in. She was close too—he could see it on her face, feel it in the tremors of her body. He didn't know if he could hold it together much longer—years since he'd been with anyone, and this was so much more—

Elizabeth stiffened and cried out, and Neal clenched down hard, holding on, holding on, fighting a losing battle for control. Losing, and then lost. The tide crashed over him, tumbling him like driftwood, leaving him washed up and devastated.

He slumped back, eyes closed, and hoped to God he hadn't embarrassed himself.

There was a dip in the mattress, and a second later, blunt fingers on his chest, over his heart, and Peter kissing him. Neal hooked his arm around Peter's neck and held him there, surrendering what little he had left.

Elizabeth pulled off and lay down along his other side, and they were all there, a jumble of lips and hands and bodies. It took a while for Neal to register that Peter was still hard. "You didn't—"

"Not keeping score," said Peter, but he was already thrusting shallowly against Neal's hip, slipping easily against sweat-damp skin. In another life, Neal would have rolled over in a heartbeat or shuffled down the bed and taken him in his mouth, but tonight Neal didn't have it in him, neither the strength nor the inclination. Athletics—hell, any kind of coordinated movement—would have to wait. Instead, he reached down, wrapped his hand around Peter's cock for the first time and stroked him, trying at the very least for a steady rhythm.

He didn't quite succeed, but Peter didn't seem to care that Neal was off his game—maybe even got a kick out of it. His kisses grew messy and broken, and he hitched his leg across Neal's and drove into Neal's fist, over and over, Elizabeth murmuring lewd encouragement, urgency increasing until his breath caught and he buried his face in Neal's hair and pulsed in his hand, spilling hot and wet. "Oh, Jesus."

After a moment or two, he exhaled, loud and humid against Neal's ear, and collapsed there, his body boneless. Neal grinned stupidly to himself and released him, then paused, not sure what to do with his hand, whether to wipe it on the sheets or go and wash it. He really didn't want to move.

Elizabeth came to the rescue with a handful of tissues and a warm smile, and then leaned across him to kiss Peter's flushed face as Neal watched hazily, marveling at their lack of self-consciousness. He might have expected that of Elizabeth, but not Peter—it seemed symbolic of how far they'd let him in. Right to the heart of things. Right here.

 

* * *

 

  
He woke in darkness with someone stretched out behind him, a masculine arm heavy around his waist. There was a split second of disorientation, and then he relaxed. Peter. It was okay; he was supposed to be here.

He eased out from under Peter's arm and the covers, and went looking for the bathroom, the green blink of his tracker casting an intermittent eerie glow. He'd always had good night vision—an advantage in his line of work—and there was enough streetlight filtering through a crack in the curtains that he could navigate with confidence, at least until he stumbled on some discarded clothing and crashed into a dresser, knocking over bottles of perfume and probably cosmetics with a clatter.

The mattress creaked. "Neal?" said Elizabeth sleepily from the bed.

"Sorry. It's nothing. Go back to sleep." He picked his way carefully to the bathroom door, avoiding further mishaps, and relieved himself, then stared into the mirror at the shadowy shape of his reflection. Was this who he was now—a guest, a part of the family, something in between? Had he been domesticated, as Mozzie so delicately put it? The small rebellious voice in the back of his head balked as a matter of course, but Neal found himself distracted by the toothbrushes in the rack: two of them, one crisp and new, the other slightly frayed.

He'd chosen this. Peter and Elizabeth—he'd chosen them. He could cut his tracker and run, even now, but he couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be. He brushed his teeth quickly, using the newer of the brushes, assuming it was Peter's, and padded back to bed, pausing in the doorway when he heard low voices.

"—how I got so lucky." Peter's words were a rumble, obviously meant only for Elizabeth's ears. Neal had to hold his breath to make out what he was saying. "Most wives would not welcome another man into their bed."

"Honey, it's not exactly a sacrifice on my part. And anyway, you always knew I was exceptional." Neal could hear the smile in Elizabeth's voice.

"Yes, you are." Silence followed, lasting long enough that Neal nearly stepped forward, but then, painfully, "You know if it was a choice, I could never leave you."

"Shh!" said Elizabeth, softly. "You don't have to choose."

"Neal will. One day."

"Kate?"

"He's still got the bottle."

Peter sounded tired, and Neal was on the verge of setting them straight—the bottle was a clue, a commitment, but no longer a love token; if anything, he'd held onto it because he was in danger of forgetting Kate completely—but the insidious voice in his head made him hold back. He could keep at least this to himself. This one small thing.

Elizabeth, ever the voice of reassurance, was already saying, "It'll be okay. He's ours now."

"Yeah. For now." The mattress creaked again, and Peter added, "Do you think he got lost on the way to the bathroom?"

Neal took a few steps back into the hall, and then walked forward, letting his approach be heard. "Did I miss something?"

"About ten minutes' sleep," said Peter. "Come back to bed."

 

**4\. **

El woke to sunlight, voices and a cool breeze against her bare shoulder. She groped for the covers, but they'd slipped down toward the foot of the bed. Where the voices were coming from. She covered her face with her arm and tried vainly for a few more minutes' sleep, and then gave in to curiosity and scooched down to see what was going on.

Neal and Peter were curled up together on the bedclothes on the floor, their bodies lit by a band of morning sunlight. Neal was wielding an indelible marker, writing something on Peter's hip while Peter looked on indulgently, complaining as a matter of course, but clearly enjoying the attention.

"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, and they both looked up, their identical startled expressions edged with guilt making her laugh.

"You started without me last night," Peter pointed out, apparently deciding attack was the best defense.

Neal poked him in the ribs. "Bad strategy." And then looked up at her, a picture of innocence, and explained, "I sign all my best work."

"I'd better get in line, then." She grinned and leaned down off the bed to kiss him good morning.

"Bad strategy why?" wondered Peter out loud.

"Don't talk about starting something if you want to leave the house any time this morning," said El, and kissed him too, then lost her balance and slid off the bed on top of them. "You should have said you were doing me a kindness, letting me sleep in."

"Mmmm," said Neal, running his hand up her thigh. "It's never too late to start something. Don't suppose we can call in sick?"

"No," said Peter, regretfully. "We're already taking enough risks. If we start keeping irregular hours—"

Neal sighed. "The FBI should get with the twenty-first century. What about flex-time and telecommuting?"

"Those generally don't go hand in hand with law enforcement," said Peter, and pointed to the letters on his hip. "Are you done?"

"Nearly." Neal bent forward to add a finishing touch. When he sat back, El laughed again. He'd drawn a heart around his name.

"Why do I feel like a third grade schoolbook?" Peter asked the room, but he pulled both Neal and El into a wide embrace and kissed them in turn, and when he was in the shower a few minutes later—while Neal was tidying up her perfume bottles and cosmetics from his middle-of-the night mishap—they could hear him singing.

"Is he always off-key?" asked Neal, comically pained.

She slid her arms around his waist and grinned up at him. "You learn to love it."

 

* * *

 

  
They left for work, and El took Satchmo for a run. Afterwards, as she was doing her hair, she stopped by the mantel in the bedroom. Next to the paper crane Peter had put there a week ago, there was now a small gray origami elephant. She smiled. Perhaps she needed to make her own paper animal to add to their zoo.

She looked around the room, noting how Neal's influence had already crept in—the felt-tip pen on the dresser, a tie draped over the closet door, the open packet of condoms El had bought specially over the weekend as a small gesture of optimism after Peter and she decided to invite him home. Her perfumes and things clustered together more artistically than they'd ever been before. They were subtle touches, but they brought a smile to her lips.

Throughout the day, she received numerous text messages from Neal, some whimsical and random, some that made her blush. Most were about Peter. The last merely said, "Peter over-compensating. Send help."

So El made a point of being home early, and wasn't surprised to hear them arguing as they walked in the door.

"What part of _be discreet_ do you not understand?" Peter was saying, clearly exasperated.

Neal was right on his heels. "I'm just saying, sleeping with the boss should earn me some benefits."

"It does," said Peter, shrugging out of his jacket and loosening his tie. "You get to sleep with the boss. And his wife. In their home." He scratched the back of his neck and frowned. "Neal, I don't like it any more than you do, but this isn't Hollywood. The FBI doesn't have casting couches."

Elizabeth judged it time to intervene. She saved the proposal she was working on and went over to them. "Hey, there. How was your day?"

"Long," said Peter.

Neal flopped onto the couch and rubbed Satchmo's ears. "Interminable. He had me doing filing."

Apparently this was the ultimate torture. Peter sat down beside him and looked to El for support.

She grimaced, her sympathy mostly with Neal on this occasion, but tried anyway. "Neal, honey, if they figure out what's going on here—"

He rolled his eyes. "I _know_. But any change is suspicious. Trust me, you try to look innocent and you just look like you're hiding something. The only way to fly under the radar is to carry on exactly as we were—" He slanted a look at Peter. "—which means letting me take shameless liberties."

"Yeah, except it's damned hard to concentrate with you at my elbow," said Peter gruffly, and took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"You know, you're lousy at undercover." But Neal's expression softened, and he leaned into Peter, pushing him back against the arm of the couch. "We're home now. Why are we wasting time arguing?"

The angle of his body was an invitation. El stripped her blouse over her head, threw it aside and went to join them.

 

**5.**

On Neal's third night in their home, Peter woke just before two in the morning to find him missing. His heart stopped for a second; it always did these days when Neal was unexpectedly absent. He didn't regret offering to let Neal run—he'd had to make sure he came home with them because he chose to, not because he was making the best of a bad situation—but Peter hated the way the suggestion lingered in the air. Every time he caught a glimpse of the tracker, gray and unyielding against Neal's ankle, he thought of it.

Perhaps he should tell Neal the offer had lapsed, that he couldn't let him go now, not ever. It had only been a few days, and there'd been some rough patches while they worked things out, but Neal had unpacked his belongings in the ex-guestroom, put up pictures and made himself at home. He had a key to the house, a shelf of books—mostly nonfiction—in the living room bookcase, and he'd even taken Satchmo for a walk around the block that evening, giving Peter and Elizabeth some private time to check in with each other.

Only a few days, but the idea of Neal leaving now was unbearable. If it came down to it, Peter would fight tooth and nail to keep them all together.

El was asleep. Peter waited a little longer to see if his errant boyfriend—the term gave him a weird illicit thrill—would return. When nothing eventuated, he got up, pulled on the first robe that came to hand—Neal's—and went to investigate.

There was a light on downstairs. Peter rubbed his eyes and followed the sound of voices to the dining room, where Neal and Haversham were sitting across from each other, papers spread out on the table between them. Satchmo was dozing at Neal's feet, and Haversham was pointing at the black and white photo of Kate and saying something about a house in Stamford.

Neal had on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and Haversham was fully clothed, of course. Peter pulled the robe tighter across his chest, feeling self-conscious and irrationally jealous of Neal's attention, and hoping like hell they weren't planning some kind of heist.

Neal looked up. "Hey, did we wake you?"

He didn't seem bothered by the interruption and made no effort to hide the evidence, so Peter told himself to calm down and went to stand behind him. He dropped his hands on Neal's shoulders, absently kneading his neck, and asked, "What's going on?"

Haversham glanced from Peter to the robe he was wearing, to Neal. "I was just showing Neal how to—where I plan to vacation—"

"Moz," said Neal, cutting off his stammered explanation. He raised his chin and looked at Peter upside-down. "Haversham traced the ring. We know who has Kate." Peter's hands tightened involuntarily, but Neal's gaze was steady. "It's okay," he said, "I'm not going anywhere."

Peter searched his face for any sign of duplicity and found none. He took a deep breath. "Okay. So what's the plan?"

"That's what we were discussing," Neal told him, then twisted around to see him properly. "You know, we've got this under control. You should go back to bed."

The message couldn't be any plainer, and much as Peter wanted to object, to intervene and make sure they weren't going to do anything stupid or illegal, he held back. Leopards didn't change their spots—Peter had known that all along. He was in love with Neal Caffrey, and if he made him feel hedged in or smothered, that would only drive him away. Neal would fill him in when the time was right. At least, Peter damn well hoped he would.

He said goodnight and forced himself to go back upstairs as if nothing was wrong, one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life, and he lay awake for another hour, staring at the ceiling until Neal crawled into bed beside him and Neal's breathing evened out into sleep.

 

**6\. **

Neal had told Peter they had the situation with Kate covered, but it wasn't true. He spent the next day devising and discarding plans to rescue her. The man with the ring was Addison Thewles, an underground art dealer from whose private Stamford auction house Neal had liberated a Cézanne and a collection of George Washington's love letters only a month before Peter caught him the first time.

Thewles had a reputation for holding a grudge, but he wasn't known to be violent. Chances were good that Kate wasn't in physical danger.

The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to tell Peter. The FBI would come down hard on Thewles and that would be it; problem solved. Except that Kate could well get caught up in the bust, and besides, Neal would prefer a more elegant solution. One that couldn't be traced directly back to him.

But Neal's deliberations were derailed when Peter said, out of nowhere, over dinner, "There's nothing else for it. I'm going to have to find someone else at the Bureau to supervise you."

"What?" Neal stared at him in alarm. "Why? Peter, I don't want to work with anyone else. I like working with you."

"Honey, is that really necessary?" said Elizabeth, putting down her knife and fork.

"I think it is." Peter looked weary, and Neal kicked himself for not seeing this coming. It was only a matter of time before Peter freaked out about some aspect of their new relationship. At least he wasn't suggesting Neal move out—Neal supposed he should be grateful for that. But this was almost as bad.

Elizabeth clasped Peter's hand. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Peter hunched forward, his elbows on the table. "That's just it: nothing's changed. It's the same old problems we always had, plus some new ones. Neal is an easy target for other investigations, and Hughes can take away my badge any time I try to help him."

"That stung, huh?" said Neal.

Peter looked up, his face bleak. "It was a slap in the face, but worst was that I thought I'd lost you."

Neal took his other hand and held on tight. "Never."

Elizabeth glanced between them and seemed to make up her mind about something. She pushed her plate of lasagna aside and looked at him earnestly. "Neal, what do you want?"

He smiled and raised his eyebrows, trying to lighten the mood. "That depends. What are my options?"

"Forget options," she said, still serious. "What do you want? From us?"

She looked determined to get an answer out of him, and Neal tried to resent the question but she was right; it was time to show his cards. He let go of Peter's hand and picked up his water glass, rolled it between his fingers, the water staying level as the angle of the glass changed. He'd never been able to lie to her. He glanced at Peter, who was watching him, waiting, and then Neal locked gazes with Elizabeth. It felt like being under oath. He told the truth.

"Everything."

The air almost seemed to shimmer for a moment—or perhaps he was just dizzy at the admission—and then there was the crash of cutlery on china, and the thud of glass on wood. Peter had dropped his fork and somehow managed to knock over his water glass, too.

Any other time, Elizabeth and Neal would have laughed at him, teased him relentlessly, but this was apparently not the time for humor.

Elizabeth nodded at Neal, satisfied, and turned to Peter. "And you?"

"You have to ask?" Peter said.

She patted his arm. "Yeah, I do." But she didn't wait for his reply. Instead she held up her hands. "Okay, both of you just hear me out before you say anything."

Anticipation prickled the back of Neal's neck. He held his tongue.

"As long as Neal's on parole, he needs an FBI supervisor to stay out of prison. Honey, no one's going to take him on but you. You know that. You've told me a dozen times that there isn't anyone else. And how long is it going to be before Hughes figures out what's going on? Do you really think he'll let it slide when he does?"

Peter opened his mouth, but she forestalled him with a look.

"I can only think of one solution," said Elizabeth. "We all run."

Neal gaped.

"Run where?" said Peter. "El, what you're suggesting, that would make us accomplices."

"I know," she said. "I don't care. If it's the only way we can be sure of staying together—"

"Yeah, until they catch us." Peter shook his head. "Which they will."

"Run where?" said Neal, picking up the unanswered question.

Elizabeth tucked her hair behind her ear. "Indonesia doesn't have an extradition treaty with America—we could go to Bali. But actually, I believe that Mexico is traditional."

She made it sound like they were planning a vacation.

Peter eyed her. "You've been watching Butch and Sundance again."

"That was Bolivia. But you're right—she wants to be Katharine Ross," agreed Neal. "Elizabeth, you haven't thought this through. You'd be giving up everything. What about your business?"

She shrugged. "I've been doing the same job for seven years; it's time for a change. And Yvonne's perfectly capable of taking over. She'd love it." She gave Peter a crooked smile. "And you—honey, I know you love working for the Bureau, but they can take that away from you anytime. They already have once."

Peter didn't say anything. He got up and went into the kitchen, came back with a cloth and mopped up his spilled water. Then he sat down, picked up his knife and fork, held them poised above his lasagna for a long moment before putting them back on his plate. "You're right."

Neal closed his eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"Says Neal Caffrey," said Peter, wryly. "You think up a better way out of this mess we're in, I'm all ears. I haven't found one, and trust me, I've tried."

Neal stared at him in disbelief. Peter and Elizabeth had everything here—careers, friends, a home, a life. The thought of them throwing it all away for him was just wrong. Life on the run was difficult and dangerous. He couldn't let them make that kind of sacrifice.

"You'd do it for us," said Elizabeth softly, as if she could hear his thoughts. "Wouldn't you?"

 

* * *

 

## Making Plans

 

**1.**

Friday morning—the morning after the night before—Neal lifted Peter's car keys.

"Oh, no," said Peter, taking them back. The drive to work under the new arrangement was never as enjoyable as it should have been. He had Neal beside him the whole way, fresh from the shower or, sometimes, sprawling in the passenger seat with post-sex languor, begging kisses at the lights, texting Elizabeth or planning ahead for their evening. Neal didn't flirt with Peter anymore—not the shallow, provocative flirting he used to exhibit, anyway—and Peter appreciated that, but Peter still had to spend the entire drive shutting down, shutting Neal down, re-establishing Peter's authority so that when they walked into the office it was there, shaping them. And since Peter didn't know how to do that gently, it usually led to Neal being frustrated or exasperated, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Usually? Jesus, they'd only been doing this for four days! The point was, Peter had to drive. He needed something to do with his hands.

Neal gave in with good grace, maybe subdued by Elizabeth's crazy Mexico scheme, and slid into the passenger seat. He was quiet most of the way, and Peter turned on the news to fill the silence.

_Let's not rush into anything,_ Neal had said last night. _We should sleep on it._ He'd been trying to talk them out of it, but in the gray light of morning, with rain drizzling down the windshield and Peter's weekly check-in with Hughes in his work calendar, running away to Mexico was more than a little appealing.

The radio news gave way to commercials, and Neal switched it off. "We're going to have to teach you to lie better," he said. "The trick is to compartmentalize. If you can link your attitude to your location, then when we get to work, it'll just click into place."

Peter glanced at him. "You know, being in love with someone and even admiring them is not the same as wanting to be them."

A cab veered in front of them, and Peter braked sharply, subjecting himself to the wrath of the other drivers. By the time everything was back under control, Neal still hadn't replied. Peter glanced across at him. "What?"

"Nothing." His expression was serious, eyes wide.

Peter curled his fingers around the steering wheel and covered the skip in his pulse by telling him gruffly, "There's no need to get melodramatic about it. I'm not the first agent to fall for a con, and I won't be the last."

Neal frowned. "Peter, I'm not conning you. What's it going to take to—?"

"Convict," Peter interrupted. "I meant convicted felon." He met Neal's eye. "I know you're not." The desire to touch him, to connect was almost irresistible, but they were nearly at the office. If Peter backtracked now, he'd never make it through his meeting with Hughes. "Later," he said, instead, and forced himself to think of Neal only as a talented, headstrong protégé.

It made no sense, really—he'd known he was in love with Neal for weeks and thought he'd hidden it fairly well. Acting on his feelings shouldn't have changed anything. And yet every look, every word was different now. Peter had to watch himself, guard against undue displays of emotion, and it was hard. He'd had far more practice watching other people.

 

**2\. **

Hughes was in a chatty mood. Before Neal, Peter had enjoyed their meetings; he had a lot of respect for the man and he appreciated how hard Hughes worked to protect his case officers from Bureau politics. Now every conversation felt like picking his way across a field of landmines, under enemy fire. That Hughes was unaware of Peter's perfidy only made it worse.

Hughes leaned back in his chair as they were winding up, sunlight bright on his shoulders. "I trust you found Caffrey somewhere appropriate to stay."

It was only half a question, but Peter couldn't hesitate. _Show no fear_, as Neal would say_._

"He's staying with Elizabeth and me in the meantime," Peter said bluntly, "until we can find somewhere suitable."

Hughes raised his eyebrows and Peter couldn't tell if his surprise was genuine. His tone was mild enough, though. "Are you sure that's wise? You need to be able to exercise authority over him, guide his behavior. That'll be a lot harder if you don't keep him at a distance."

"It's working out fine so far." Peter busied himself straightening the papers in his hand. "It was Elizabeth's idea—she's taken a shine to him." He looked up and added, "You know how women take to him." He was trying for wry, but the words came out flat and uninflected.

Something flickered across Hughes's face. "Well, it's your call. Just make sure you remember who you're dealing with. Caffrey didn't get where he is today without taking advantage of people."

Peter nodded, thought hard about sandwiches and shoes and taking the car to get tuned up, and escaped as soon as he could.

He got back to his own office to hear Neal saying, "—away, the mice can play."

Peter paused in the doorway. Neal was perched on the edge of the desk, and Cruz stood in front of him, a memo in her hand. "Not really seeing you as a mouse," she said.

Neal glanced across at Peter. "And here comes the cat."

Peter pressed his lips together, biting back the temptation to tell Cruz hands off. Instead he put the reports in his desk drawer and then glanced at her. "Did you need something?"

"The DC office wants everything we've got on Robert Samson Ellington," she said, promptly. "The dealer you caught with the Gauguin." Peter hated to think what she saw in his face that was making her so brisk in return.

"Fine," he said. Once she'd left, he dropped into his chair and looked up at Neal, who twisted around to face him. "Must you?"

Neal gave him a look.

"I know, I know." Peter hunched over his desk and inhaled deeply. "Sorry."

Neal studied him for a moment. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," said Peter automatically. "I just— It's fine." He'd gone into this with his eyes wide open. He'd handle it.

"Peter—" Neal's tone was low and concerned, and all Peter could think about was waking up that morning sandwiched between him and Elizabeth, warm breath on the back of his neck, Neal's cock against his ass.

"Don't," he said, and excused himself to the men's room, half expecting Neal to follow him. Disappointed when he didn't, even though that would be beyond stupid. Peter shut himself into a cubicle and unfastened his pants so he could see the heart Neal had drawn on his hip, and leaned against the door till his head cleared.

Someone came in—a heavier tread than Neal's—and Peter waited for them to leave before he let himself out and washed his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. The reflection staring back at him wasn't an FBI agent. He'd been suspended for doing his job, for seeking out the truth and trying to clear Neal's name. His reputation, his authority—everything he'd worked years to attain—had been erased in a second. His swift reinstatement wasn't enough to secure his loyalty. Not anymore.

 

**3\. **

When they went down to the car at the end of the day, Peter dug in his pocket and tossed Neal the car keys unprompted. Neal caught them neatly and shot him a sweet smile, and Peter's tension rolled back. It was the weekend: two days of uninterrupted privacy. He wasn't going to waste a second.

Half an hour later, nearly home, his and Neal's phones both buzzed, and Peter checked his. "El's working late," he read out. "Her florists have flaked out again." He tucked his phone away again. "We're on our own this evening."

"I'm sure we can find something to keep us busy." It was almost matter-of-fact, but Peter flushed anyway, images flooding his mind. Neal must have been thinking along similar lines. He added, "You know, when Elizabeth bought the condoms, she also bought lube."

Peter's mouth went dry. "I know."

"Have you thought about it?" It was an offer, laced with hope and promise.

"Yeah." Peter licked his lips, unable to convey to Neal exactly how much he'd been thinking about it, or in how much detail. Remembering Neal's arms around him in bed that morning and not sure how to negotiate roles or find the right words to say what he wanted. Words that wouldn't sound awkward or crass. "When you've—In the past, did you—?"

"Pitch or catch?" Neal supplied helpfully.

Peter nodded, ignoring the teasing gleam in Neal's eye.

"I can go either way, but if you want to—"

"I want you to do me," Peter blurted.

Neal's eyebrows twitched up in surprise, and he took Peter's hand, tangling fingers with him regardless of the traffic or the road. The car beeped a warning, and he withdrew instantly, putting both his hands on the wheel. Peter reached across and cupped the back of his neck, not to distract him, just making contact and steadying them both.

All week he'd been acutely aware of the lube in the nightstand drawer, been thinking about what it would be like to have Neal over him and in him, but even after the barriers they'd stripped away, Peter had hesitated to make a move in that direction in front of Elizabeth. Sure, the lube had been her idea, but he was still her husband. So he and Neal had used their hands and mouths on each other and Elizabeth, and watched each other with her, and it had all been so erotic and intimate that Peter was pretty sure they'd broken some kind of goddamned record, that no one else had ever had it as good. But this was still a line they hadn't crossed, and Peter craved it.

They got home, got as far as the bottom of the stairs, didn't even bother to turn on the lights before Neal yanked Peter close. Peter threaded his hands into Neal's hair and held him, kissing the corners of his eyes, the soft skin just in front of his ear, the scrape of his jaw, trying to temper their passion with tenderness, but Neal leaned into him bodily, pushing him back against the wall, and raked down Peter's sides and around to his ass. There was a possessiveness in his touch that was new and might have been unsettling if Peter hadn't wanted him so badly his vision was blurring. He let out a long shaky breath and widened his stance so Neal could get closer, right up against him, and then he yielded to the embrace and let Neal take the lead.

But after five or ten minutes, it became pretty obvious that Neal's idea of taking the lead was going to involve making out at the bottom of the stairs for half the night, haphazardly working each other out of their clothes and getting more and more turned on without any indication that they were ever going to make it to the bedroom. Neal rocked into Peter and sucked a hickey over his collarbone, and Peter groaned into the hair above Neal's ear. "I thought we had—oh _God!_—there was a plan."

Neal pulled back, panting. His mouth was wet, pupils blown, hair curling over his forehead, and Peter nearly lost it, had to shut his eyes and grit his teeth to keep from coming then and there. Every nerve in his body was singing, aching for more.

"Plan," repeated Neal.

Peter ran his thumb along Neal's lower lip. "Does sex always make you stupid?"

"I—" Neal's forehead wrinkled as he processed the question. "Sex with _you_ makes me stupid." Peter couldn't deny he got a kick out of that, but he was also going to have to get Neal back on track.

"Come on," he said, nudging him toward the stairs. "Get your head in the game."

But Neal sat down on the third step and dragged Peter down on top of him. "I spent all day thinking about this," he murmured, in between kissing his way up Peter's neck and pulling Peter's shirt loose from his pants. "Do you have any idea how long nine hours can be?"

"I have some idea. I also recall you flirted with half of the women in downtown Manhattan today," said Peter, drily. "I don't think I was that much of a distraction." It didn't matter. They were here now—that was enough. He push Neal's shirt aside and bit down gently on the warm, smooth shoulder in front of him, relinquishing all hope of getting them upstairs. There'd be other opportunities.

Neal caught his face and forced Peter's chin up. Neal's eyes were clearer, his mouth a rueful straight line. "You know, you are incredibly blind sometimes."

"Yeah, well, you make me stupid, too," Peter told him frankly. He wasn't smart about relationships. He never had been—it was only through the grace of God and Elizabeth's stubborn insistence on talking things out that his marriage was as good as it was. And as well as he knew Neal, he was still learning his way around the recent and evolving changes to their partnership.

Neal's expression softened, a smile tugging at his lips. "There was a plan," he said, curling his fingers over the waistband of Peter's pants. His knuckles were warm against Peter's lower belly, fingertips tantalizingly close to Peter's cock. "Come on."

They scrambled up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed still half-dressed. Peter kicked off his shoes and let them thump to the floor, and Neal knelt up beside him and rummaged in the nightstand drawer for supplies. He put the bottle and the strip of condoms next to the alarm clock and peeled off his shirt, then crawled on top of Peter and bent to kiss him. "Have you done anything like this before?"

Peter shook his head. Not even close.

Neal kissed him again, lazy and full-lipped, slowing them down. "I'll make it good," he murmured, and Peter might have been stupid at relationships, but maybe he wasn't so blind after all, because all of a sudden he could sense the underlying tension in Neal's face, cording his body.

"This isn't a test." Peter rolled them so he was on top, leaning over Neal, pinning him down. "You're not on probation here."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He didn't want to remind Neal of their legal standing, didn't want that between them in their bedroom—no matter that the tracker was a constant reminder—but Neal touched his face, apparently taking the reassurance in the spirit intended.

"Okay," he said, and when they came together again, the atmosphere shifted, their caresses turning heated and easy. When Neal slid a wet finger inside Peter, the discomfort was nothing compared to the excitement of crossing that line and the anticipation of more to come; and when, an eternity later, lying on their sides, Neal draped himself over Peter's back and pressed in, steady and relentless, his mouth on Peter's shoulder blade, his upper arm, Peter held his breath, overcome at the beauty of it, the intensity, the burn and stretch of Neal moving inside him.

"More lube," he croaked, but it was really that he needed a moment, a chance to gather himself before he spontaneously combusted or passed out. Neal murmured something and eased out, and there was the click of the lube bottle lid. A second later, he was back, briefly cool, sliding in more easily now, and this time Peter knew he could take it. He rocked into the mattress with each of Neal's thrusts, trusting him to navigate, letting him in deep, hiding nothing.

One of Neal's hands was in Peter's hair, the other slung across his chest, holding him close, and they moved together like a rolling wave of molasses, sweet and heavy. Peter gripped the pillow, braced his arm against the mattress and hung on, feverish and overwhelmed. After a while, Neal slid his hand down over Peter's belly and found his cock, stroked him in time, making him shudder uncontrollably. Heartbeat by heartbeat, pleasure sharpened into need, until Peter came, gasping, Neal still moving in him, driving him out of his mind.

There was a soft sound from the doorway, and Peter's eyes flew open. El was standing there, her purse held awkwardly as though she'd been about to put it on the dresser but had frozen in place. Her face was in shadow, her gaze dark and appreciative, but Peter—keenly aware of his sweaty face and chest, his spent cock, of Neal behind him, fucking him—blushed despite himself, until El dropped her purse, slipped out of her skirt and blouse, and came to sit on the edge of the bed, wrinkling her nose at the damp spot Peter had made on the sheets, but leaning in to kiss first Neal, then Peter, her lips lush and tender.

"Don't mind me," she said, huskily. She unfastened her bra and dropped it to the floor. Her breasts were pale and full in the faint light from the street.

Neal groaned under his breath. His rhythm stuttered, and his cock pulsed in Peter's ass. "That wasn't fair," he told El, a breathless minute later. "And what happened to the flower disaster?"

"I left it in Yvonne's capable hands." El unclipped her hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders. "She has to learn sometime."

"Elizabeth doesn't play fair—you haven't worked that out yet?" Peter rose up on one elbow and mock-frowned at her. "That wasn't very nice."

"You're making up for it by impugning my honor." She grinned unrepentantly and moved to sit with her back against the headboard, hands curled demurely in her lap. "It's okay—I can wait my turn."

Her smooth thighs were at eye level, a distracting invitation, but Peter had unfinished business. He suppressed a wince while Neal pulled out, and then turned to face him. "Hey."

Neal was a mess, his hair in sweaty disarray, his eyes heavy. He licked his lips. "Peter—" It came out raw, as plain as if he'd said the words.

"I know. Me too." Peter kissed him, held him tightly. His ankle bumped against the smooth plastic of the tracker.

 

**4.**

Later, much later, after Elizabeth teased them both mercilessly and they had their revenge, they all stumbled downstairs in search of food, and Elizabeth raised the subject of Mexico again.

"Neal has a talent for disappearing—he can teach us," she said, sitting on the counter chewing a stick of celery while Peter made an omelet and Neal put together a salad. She was wearing Peter's shirt and little else.

"It's a lot harder than bluffing at poker." Neal stopped in front of her on his way back from the refrigerator and stole a bite of her celery, and she pulled him close and kissed him, while Peter watched, unable to tear his eyes away from the two of them until the omelet sizzled, demanding his attention.

"And there's the matter of Neal's GPS," he said. "If we cut it, we'd need to disappear off the map like that." He snapped his fingers, then picked up the pepper grinder. "We'd have to leave behind the house, our clothes, cars, everything. Our bank accounts, our 401Ks. Friends, family, Satchmo."

"We're not leaving Satchmo," said Elizabeth, instantly. "Honey—"

"He's right," said Neal, going back to the salad. "We'd have to vanish. It couldn't look planned—you'd need to maintain plausible deniability as long as possible, in case we got caught. Ideally, it would—" He broke off.

"What?" Peter went over and reached around him for plates, taking the opportunity to steal a kiss. Neal's mouth opened under his, and Peter forgot what they were talking about.

"What?" repeated Elizabeth, shaking her head at them with fond exasperation. "Focus, you two! Anyway, I've already planned our escape route."

Neal pulled away. "Focus," he mouthed.

Peter laughed, swatted him on the ass and went to dish up the omelet.

They ate at the table. "You have a plan," Neal prompted El, and then frowned and added, "For the record, I still think running is a terrible idea. You have a good life here, you'd be crazy to throw it away and there's too great a chance of getting caught. We can figure out some kind of smokescreen to throw people off the scent—even if it means me moving out."

"Do you have any idea how long it took us to get you here?" El's eyes sparked. "You are not going anywhere!"

"Not without us," Peter confirmed.

Neal's gaze was eloquent. "I don't want to, believe me. This is—" He shook his head, apparently at a loss for words. "But we're talking about giving up everything—about you giving up everything—and I can't ask that. It's too much."

"You haven't asked for anything," said Peter, only recognizing the truth of it as he said it. Neal had accepted everything they'd offered, but hadn't once asked for more, beyond his habitual teasing. Maybe that was a natural outcome of their legal standing, or maybe it was just how Neal was, but it wasn't right.

"Then I'll start now," said Neal, retreating into humor. He looked at Elizabeth. "Tell me your plan?"

She put down her fork. "One of my clients has a private yacht and sails down to Veracruz every month to see his in-laws. He'd take us unofficially if I asked and leave us somewhere discreet."

"We'd wash up on an empty beach somewhere with a suitcase each and no ID, and no one would ask any questions? And that's assuming we can trust this guy." Peter took her hand.

El stuck out her chin. "I'm pretty sure Neal could arrange new IDs, couldn't you?"

Neal nodded. "IDs are easy, but a yacht won't work. Peter was right about the tracker. We'd need to vanish as soon as it's cut, and if I cut it near a marina, they'll figure it out and catch me in a second. You'd both be implicated just by being there."

"I could authorize your tracker to go offline," said Peter, giving up the pretense that they weren't seriously talking about this, curious to see if they could come up with a foolproof plan between the three of them. "That would buy us some time."

"It's too risky." Neal folded his arms on the table and hunched over his half-eaten omelet. He looked all of twenty years old. "I won't let you incriminate yourself like that."

"I've already crossed that line." Peter was still holding El's hand. Now she got up and came to stand behind him, squeezing his shoulders. "I stopped being an FBI agent when I asked you to come home with us," Peter told Neal. "It's hard to uphold the law when I'm—"

"You're still an agent," Neal protested. "This isn't illegal."

"It is," said Peter, not wanting to get into it but not willing to lie, either. "And even if it wasn't, it's a gross breach of trust." He met Neal's gaze. "I'm just saying, I knew what I was doing. So long as you're here of your own free will, I've accepted the consequences. You're worth it."

"You are," echoed El, softly, and Peter took her hand from his shoulder and kissed her palm.

Neal looked stricken. "Peter, I never meant to cost you—"

"I knew what I was doing," Peter repeated, firmly. "And now—if it's a choice between sneaking around and being an out-and-out fugitive, frankly I'd prefer to run. Especially if it means you can get rid of that damned bracelet. So stop trying to protect us and tell us your plan. I know you've got one."

"Okay." Neal took a drink of water and a deep breath. "Can we do this on the couch?"

"Oh, honey," said El. "Of course."

They left their half-eaten meals and bundled onto the couch, Neal between Peter and El. Peter rested his arm along the back of the couch, and El hitched her knee up and twisted sideways, so she could see both of them.

"Okay." Neal was clearly still thrown, though he was doing a better job of hiding it now. "It should look like a kidnapping."

El's eyes widened. "Oh, clever."

"And how would we go about arranging to be kidnapped?" Peter asked.

For a moment it looked like Neal was going to refuse to answer, but El gave him an encouraging smile and he gave in. "You remember the place where we held the party for Govat? It's owned by a man called Kretchmer. He owes me. Don't ask why."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want to know," said Peter.

El leaned forward and murmured, "I want to know everything, but maybe not right now."

Neal smoothed her hair, and continued, "Kretchmer's extremely wealthy and he has connections. He could arrange to have us all kidnapped and transported internationally without anyone being able to trace it back to him." Neal looked from Peter to El. "Once we're there, we'd be on our own, but it would give us a cover if we got caught in transit."

"Except for how someone had decided to kidnap all three of us at once," said Elizabeth. "That's not suspicious at all."

Neal put his hand on her knee. "I can think of half a dozen innocent explanations off the top of my head. So can you."

"True," said El, and smiled. She unfolded herself from her place on the couch and came to sit on Peter's lap, facing Neal. "So, are we doing this?"

"We couldn't come home," Peter reminded her. "Not until the statute of limitations ran out."

"I know," she said. "I've thought about it. I'm sure." She was absurdly serene at the prospect, and Peter and Neal exchanged concerned glances.

"I don't want you to regret me," said Neal, ostensibly to Elizabeth, though Peter was pretty sure it was directed at him, too.

El slid forward and straddled Neal. "We won't. I won't. This isn't something that happened overnight, you know. It's not going to go away." She put her hands on his face and kissed him, and Neal's arms encircled her. Peter moved in too, wanting to be close to them, and that was the end of that discussion.

 

**5.**

"Mom, Dad, this is our friend Neal. He's staying with us for a few weeks."

It was Sunday, and Elizabeth had ordered Peter and Neal out of bed at ten-thirty and informed them that Neal was coming to visit her parents. Peter had doubted the wisdom of it, but now, seeing Neal win over El's amateur-historian father with informed opinions on the War of Independence and then charm her mother, Maryanne, who was soon to retire from her job as an optician, by listening attentively to her ongoing frustrations with health insurance companies, Peter's throat ached. This was El's family, and Neal slotted right in with his usual ease. Maybe he was faking it—Peter couldn't always be sure, even now—but it was still an attractive picture.

El's eyes were misty, and Peter stood behind her in the kitchen doorway and hugged her, sharing a glimpse of a future that was out of reach. Maryanne smiled at Neal across the table and poured him a second cup of coffee, and El gulped audibly and murmured to Peter that she was going out to the yard to check on Satchmo.

Peter followed her.

"It's not too late to change our minds," he said. That night, he and Neal planned to go into the office and alter Neal's FBI files to lay a false trail; if Elizabeth wanted to back out, it should be today.

"No, I'm okay," she said. "I knew this would be hard." She blew her nose. Satchmo came over to say hi, and she rubbed his ears and looked up at Peter. "How are you doing? I know I've been pushing for this, but—is it what you want?"

"If I get to be with you and Neal, and we're all safe, I don't give a damn where we are," he said. "We can move to the moon, for all I care."

"You're a good man and I love you, but I think, given the choice, I'd prefer somewhere with a stronger gravitational field." El smiled, the corners of her mouth tucking down. "Okay, well, I guess I'd better go in and spend some time with them, then."

She squared her shoulders and took herself inside, and Peter sat for a moment on the wooden loveseat under the elm tree, listening to kids playing a few yards over and the sound of a leaf blower from across the street, while he watched Satchmo amble around the lawn. He'd miss America—some of it, at least—but no matter how hard he searched inside, he couldn't find any doubts.

"So that's that," he told Satchmo, who was ignoring him in favor of sniffing a lavender bush. "Game on."

 

* * *

 

## Patriot Games

 

**1.**

The windshield wipers were on intermittent; they swooshed back and forth and then paused. "What were you doing with Lauren's thesis?" asked Peter.

Neal had been expecting the question ever since Mozzie told him Peter had seen the unbound copies at his storage unit. "I was correcting some inaccuracies," Neal said now, wishing he'd brought his hat.

Peter shot him an exasperated look, which was fair enough, really; it had been an unnecessary risk. At the time he'd taken it, Neal had had a lot less to lose.

Still. "There was too much information in there."

"Most of which is replicated in the court files, not to mention that Lauren's thesis is on ProQuest." Peter turned the wipers on full. "At best, you're creating inconsistencies."

"It's a start." In fact, revising Cruz's thesis had been a precursor to their current mission, which Neal had privately named Operation Smoke and Mirrors. They were on their way into the office to edit some key details in Neal's FBI file—nothing too obvious, just enough to send any future investigations down the wrong track. Mozzie had offered to find them a high-level computer guru ("I know this guy who hacked the CIA mainframe before _hacking_ was even a verb. They called it _electronic trespass_.") but when Neal relayed this to Peter, Peter brushed it aside, saying they weren't doing anything complicated and his own security access would cover it. "You're the boss," Neal had told him.

He still didn't know if Peter was just being naturally cautious, or if he was operating on a lie-down-with-dogs principle, and if it were the latter, how much that extended to Neal himself.

They were nearly there. "We go in, we do this, we get out. No loitering," said Peter.

"Got it." Neal touched his arm, but Peter didn't respond. He was all business. It felt wrong. "Peter, are you sure you want to do this?"

Peter parked and killed the engine. "Do I want to give you free access to the FBI database, in full knowledge that you're going to unlawfully alter the information therein with the intention of misleading the Bureau?"

He sounded borderline hysterical. Neal's stomach twisted—had been twisting for days now. God, what had he done? He should have stayed in prison, taken the heat for the Picasso and left Peter and Elizabeth in peace. Or he should disappear now, make a unilateral decision to protect them. Except that he wasn't a good enough person to make that sacrifice—he couldn't leave.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Peter was watching him. "What about you?"

Neal tried to smile. "You know me—I'm all about taking chances." It was exactly the wrong thing to say; he knew it even as the words were forming. He tightened his grip on Peter's arm to mitigate the damage, and added softly, "I've been sure since the elevator. I was sure when you gave me my consultant's badge and said you owned me, and when Elizabeth opened the door to me that first time, and when you found me in Hagen's warehouse and looked at me like I was your own personal Santa. I didn't always know it, but I know now, and there's no going back. And it terrifies me like you wouldn't believe, because I have never not had an escape route planned out before."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Even with Kate?"

"Even with Kate," said Neal. "You think I'm a romantic, but I always kept Kate at a distance. I could never trust her. Here, with you, with El, I know exactly what we're doing. I know who you are and who Elizabeth is, and yeah. I am sure."

Apparently that was what it took to render Peter speechless. They stared at each other for a long minute, while Neal's stomach slowly unraveled, leaving him feeling immeasurably better. He should've wised up and said it sooner.

"You need to tell that to El, too," said Peter at last.

"I will."

"Good." Peter didn't move. "And now you need to get inside before I drag you into the backseat and get us both arrested for public indecency." From the way he said it, Neal was pretty sure he wasn't exaggerating.

Neal was out of the car in a second. "Getting arrested is overrated," he said, bending down so he could see Peter's face. "Does the Agency have security cameras in the men's room?"

 

**2.**

In the end, commonsense asserted itself, and they didn't have sex in the men's room of the FBI, despite themselves. They went to Peter's office. Peter logged into the database and Neal settled in to work through his electronic file, while Peter made subtle revisions to the paper one. They'd talked earlier about what information to change, what to leave. It was a straightforward job, and Neal was done in less than twenty minutes. He saved and close his file, and the search screen stared back at him.

Peter was pen in hand, nose deep in paperwork.

Neal searched on Kate Moreau.

There was only one listing in the search results. Neal clicked before he knew what he was doing, and then pushed away from the desk, the wheels of the chair dragging slightly on the thin office carpet. "Peter."

"Yeah." Peter looked up.

"I need a favor." Neal willed him to understand. "I want to alter Kate's file, too, and Haversham's, if he has one." He could have just done it, or he could have framed it as a necessary part of their escape, but he needed to be honest about this. He needed to trust Peter.

Peter put down his pen. "Anyone else? The Giants' top draft picks, maybe?"

"I'm leaving them," said Neal, ignoring the cheap shot. "I owe them this much."

Peter blew out a breath, and Neal could see suspicion forming around him like a cloud.

"I didn't plan this, I swear." Neal navigated his chair closer to Peter. "But it's an opportunity. If I can do this—if I can stop Thewles from terrorizing Kate and make sure no one else is after her, then she won't need me anymore."

"And if I say no?" Peter asked.

"I'll try to persuade you, using every means at my disposal," said Neal, honestly.

Peter huffed a laugh. "You'll succeed, so you might as well go ahead," he said, shaking his head. "Just keep it low key. And for once in your life, don't damned well sign anything."

"I know, I know, we don't want to call attention to ourselves." Neal scooted back to the computer. "For the record, the only reason I'm not kissing you right now is that if I started, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

"You get turned on when I behave like a doormat," Peter translated. "Good to know."

Neal balled up the first sheet of paper that came to hand and threw it at him. "You know what I meant."

Peter laughed, and then bent down to swipe the paper off the floor and smoothed it flat again. "This is a warrant application—I need to keep this. Could you maybe focus so we can get out of here before you bring the whole office crashing down?"

"Yes, sir." Neal turned back to the computer screen with alacrity. "Ten minutes, tops." But he was still working on Thewles's file when Peter came and looked over his shoulder. "I'm not saying anything that isn't true," Neal told him.

"You'd better not be." Peter squinted at the screen. "The Olafson robbery—that's why I recognized the ring!"

"You investigated it?" Neal glanced over his shoulder.

"For two months, right through Christmas. All my leads were dead ends and El nearly left me." Peter met his eye. "Was it you?"

"I was in prison, remember?" Neal turned back to face the screen but he leaned against Peter. "I'm pretty sure incarceration by the State qualifies as an alibi."

"Possession of the ring will be enough to get him investigated," said Peter, as Neal started typing again. "Don't overdo it, or you'll make me look like an idiot."

"And then Cruz will know for sure that we've been cooking the books," said Neal. "She knows exactly how smart you are." Neal could feel Peter's eyes on him, and hid a grin. "I told you you were blind—all this time, you thought it was me she was interested in."

"You're delusional. Are you done?"

Neal added another two lines to the file, flagged it so it would show up in Jones' inbox in a week, and saved. The changes would be backed up at two in the morning, and Peter planned to get Jones and Cruz to make minor additional corrections to Neal's file over the next few days to disguise the importance of tonight's edits. Having a bunch of different versions should at least slow the investigation down, if the kidnapping didn't manage to throw them off the scent completely.

"I'm done." Neal logged out and shut down Peter's computer. "Let's get out of here."

 

**3.**

The following Saturday, Peter, Elizabeth and Neal had a quiet dinner at June's with her and Mozzie. Afterwards, they headed around the corner to the car, Peter bemoaning no longer having daily access to June's coffee and Elizabeth laughing at him. Neal had his hands deep in his coat pockets against the wind. He was absent-mindedly admiring Peter's ass and Elizabeth's ankles when an unmarked white van skidded to a halt and six burly men in balaclavas jumped out and grabbed them. Elizabeth screamed.

The men cut Neal's tracker in a matter of seconds, and then threw them all into the van, bound their hands and feet with tape, and drove off. It was frighteningly realistic, and Neal was half-convinced that Kretchmer had nothing to do with it—that this was the real thing. His brain started racing to figure out who might want to capture them.

Then the biggest of their assailants, his breath thick with tobacco smoke, leaned in close and said, "Satchmo," and Neal relaxed. This was the plan. This was it. They were gone.

 

* * *

 

## As Time Goes By (the usual suspects)—Epilogue

 

**Sunday morning, 2am**

 

The Burkes' house was dark and quiet, not surprising for this time of night. Kate picked the lock on the backdoor and let herself in, and then jumped about a mile in the air when a dog ran out of the kitchen shadows, its bark shattering the silence.

Kate gave up on stealth and groped for the light switch, found it and flooded the kitchen with harsh white light. "Down, boy," she told the dog. "Calm down!"

He quieted a little, and his tail was wagging, at least. He licked her hand and she patted him and then turned her attention to the rest of the house. It was nice, in a respectable, suburban kind of way. Pretty much in keeping with what she knew of Peter Burke. She opened the refrigerator, taking the opportunity to nosy around while she waited for someone—hopefully Neal—to come and investigate the source of the dog's alarm.

Nothing surprising in the fridge either, though she noted a half-empty jar of Neal's favorite brand of olives, a collection of expensive cheeses. Kate ate an olive, pulled an apologetic face at the hopeful and hungry-looking dog and went into the living room. No one had come downstairs yet—if they didn't soon, she was either going to have to goad the dog into making more noise or go upstairs and find Neal herself. Assuming her information was good and he was really here.

In the meantime, she sank onto the couch, picked a Lonely Planet Guide to Indonesia off the coffee table and leafed through it, keeping one ear alert for any sounds from upstairs. It was a relief to be alone, actually, after months of being hounded and bullied by Thewles. His arrest earlier that day had made Kate feel quite kindly toward the FBI.

Ten minutes later, considerably better informed on the tourist attractions in Bali, Kate gave up on anyone coming to find her and took the initiative. She turned on lights as she went—the last thing she needed was someone pulling a gun on her—and explored upstairs. The smaller bedroom had a box of art supplies on the dresser, Neal's pictures on the walls and a closet full of stylish clothes in his size. The bed looked crisp and untouched.

There were three toothbrushes in the bathroom. No signs of life, except the dog which had followed Kate upstairs and was still regarding her hopefully.

The master bedroom was empty too. Kate fought back a sense of disappointment and took the liberty of investigating the closets: nondescript men's suits on one side, attractive dresses and a range of women's businesswear on the other—Peter's wife's. They looked about Kate's size, and she tried to browse through them, tempted to take advantage of the Burkes' absence, but the clothes were jammed together, almost scrunched up. On a hunch, Kate opened the closet door wider and looked past the clothes to the side wall of the closet. "Oh."

There was about a foot of space, and in it was a tableau: a worn, dull gray men's suit, and on the floor beneath it, a cellphone and the Bordeaux bottle with its lemon-juice map revealed.

Kate reached past Peter's wife's silks and linen suits and bent to pick up the bottle, its curves smooth and familiar under her fingers. She was too late: the bottle meant goodbye.

 

**Monday morning, 9.30am**

 

Jones met Cruz outside Peter's place. He'd never been there before, and it hardly looked like a home with the yellow tape across the door and the NYPD uniform outside. It was just another crime scene.

"You want to check out the house first or talk to the neighbor?" he asked Cruz.

"House first," she said, grimly, and led the way inside. Jones pulled on latex gloves and followed. They'd spent Saturday night and most of Sunday looking for potential witnesses and reviewing stoplight cameras in a five-block radius around the point where Caffrey's tracker went dead, trying to find a clue to where he'd run to. There was nothing. He'd literally disappeared without a trace. They hadn't been able to contact Peter at all. On Sunday night a neighbor had reported both of the Burkes missing, and when Peter hadn't turned up to work on Monday morning, that clinched it: something wasn't right. Peter would never just not turn up—he always called if he was going to be late. And none of them were answering their cells.

Jones and Cruz combed the house from top to bottom.

"Man, it's weird investigating the boss, you know?" Jones said as he passed the bathroom door.

Cruz was frowning into the bathroom cabinet. She looked up. "You've had cases on people you've known before though, right?"

"First time." Jones went into the guest room, which didn't look so much like a guest room as it did a bedroom. "Wasn't Neal only staying here till they found him somewhere else?"

"That's what I heard." Cruz poked her head around the door and looked around. "Maybe he's an unpacker. You know, someone who hates living out of a suitcase."

Jones smirked. "Yeah, those suitcases can play hell on your tailoring."

It was funny for about a second and a half, before he remembered that the Burkes and Caffrey were missing. For all anyone knew, their bodies would wash up on the Jersey Shore by lunchtime. Jones swallowed and kept looking. "Hey, don't they have a dog?"

"He's with the neighbor," Cruz called. "Bethany—Bethany Damrosch." She sounded like she was reading from her BlackBerry. "She was the one who called it in."

"Right." Jones checked the pockets of Neal's suits, looked through the box of art supplies on the dresser. He didn't want to go through the guy's underwear, but he made himself take at least a cursory look. Nothing.

He went into the master bedroom where Cruz was studying the mantel through narrowed eyes. It just looked like the usual clutter of stuff to Jones: CDs, photos, origami animals, old birthday cards, one of those aromatherapy burners. He didn't know what Cruz was seeing.

A cell phone rang nearby, and he and Cruz both looked around. It sounded like it was coming from the corner.

"The closet," said Jones, but Cruz got there first. She yanked the door open, pushed aside the dresses and empty hangers and grabbed the cell phone from the closet floor. "Yeah?"

Jones couldn't hear the caller, but he could see the disappointment on Cruz's face and her reply made it clear the caller was one of Elizabeth's clients.

She hung up and dropped the cell phone into an evidence bag, and then paused in the closet doorway. "That's weird."

"What?" Jones went to look. There were a lot of empty clothes hangers on Elizabeth's side of the closet, and right down the end, where the cellphone had been, was Peter's favorite old suit. "What's weird about it?"

"What's Peter's suit doing on Elizabeth's side of the closet?" Cruz asked.

"If it's kinky, I don't want to know about it," said Jones, backing away. "I mean, if Peter shows up tomorrow and says they were just out of town and what was all the fuss about, the last thing I want to be thinking is—"

Cruz was looking at him like he was crazy. "That suit is the opposite of kink. Jeez, would you give up and get cable already?"

Jones scowled and scanned the room one more time. "There's nothing here. Come on, let's talk to the neighbor."

"You got it." Cruz stopped on the way out and touched the gray-green tie hanging on the door handle.

"Is that Neal's?" asked Jones.

"Peter's," said Cruz. She pressed her lips together. "They've got to be okay, dammit."

"We'll find them." Jones squeezed her shoulder. "If they want to be found, we'll find them."

 

**Six months later**

 

"Two eggs," said Bethany, "and then you dissolve the baking powder and the baking soda into the sour cream. Do that in a separate bowl." She was sitting at the breakfast bar reading _The Time Traveler's Wife_ with Satchmo at her feet, and supervising her son as he baked his girlfriend a chocolate-banana birthday cake.

"You know, mom, this is actually kinda cool," said Gabe, who somehow had a smudge of flour on his cheek already, despite not having got to the flour part of the recipe. Maybe it was baking powder. "I didn't know it was this easy."

"I should have got you baking when you were younger—you could have saved me hours." Bethany gave him a smile and went back to her book, only to be interrupted a few seconds later when the doorbell rang.

Josh was out in the garage and Gabe was wearing an apron that said _Mom's Travel Agency: Guilt Trips Our Specialty _and was already shaking his head in anticipation of her asking, so she grinned, elbowed him as she passed, and went to answer the door herself.

It was a short bald man in glasses and a green turtleneck. "Bethany Damrosch?"

"Yeah?" He didn't look dangerous or like he was trying to sell anything.

He nodded and lowered his voice. "Is this by any chance the residence of Satchmo Burke?"

"I thought the case was closed months ago." Bethany eyed him. "You're not FBI."

"No, I still have my soul," the man agreed. "I also have this." He handed her an envelope.

It was made of thick creamy art paper, and addressed only to a post office box. The postmark read Portugal, but the printed card inside was for an art exhibition in Zihuatanejo, Mexico. There were dates and an address on one side, and on the other, a reproduction of an oil painting, all yellows and blues and green shadows: a woman in profile, standing on a beach and holding a coil of rope. "Wait, isn't that—?"

It was like seeing a ghost. Bethany rubbed her eyes.

The bald man nodded, with a sympathetic grimace. "Did you see the title? They have no sense of subtlety—where are the classical allusions, the hidden typography, the complex prime-based codes requiring hours of analysis? I'm telling you, it's almost insulting."

The title of the painting was printed in the corner of the card. _Baby, come home._ When Bethany looked closer, she realized the coil of rope was a dog leash. There were even faint paw prints in the sand.

Her head spun. "We've just got used to having him," she said, but it didn't matter. El was okay. She was out there somewhere and safe enough to be able to offer Satchmo a home again. The relief was tremendous. "Can I keep this? I need to show my sister."

The man shook his head and took it off her. "Sorry. This is one of those 'these instructions will self-destruct in thirty seconds' scenarios. But I can pass on a message for you, if you like."

"Sure. Yes." Bethany waved him inside, into the living room. "Give me a minute to get my head together." She grabbed her personal organizer and sat in Josh's armchair, trying to sort through the teeming questions in her head and figure out what to say. In the end she settled for:

_Secret sixty-second survey:_  
1\. I thought you were dead! Pick up a phone already!  
2\. And now you're stealing away another member of our family. I'm going to have to actually get a dog of my own now and it's all your fault.  
3\. Get this: Gabe is baking a cake. See what life-shattering events you miss when you vanish off the face of the earth?  
4\. Was it worth it?

She tore the page from her organizer, folded it and fetched an envelope from the study.

"Don't address it," said the man, as she went to do just that.

Bethany handed it over, the reality sinking in. "So, you're taking him now? How do I know this isn't—"

"An elaborate dog-napping scam?" supplied the man. "You don't. Except that I'm allergic to dogs, so it's not a line of work I've ever considered practical or profitable. If I were taking it up professionally, I'd have to go for breeds less prone to shedding—Llasa Apsos, Bichon Frises, Shih Tzus." He patted his jacket pocket. "Luckily, modern medicine has come up with a temporary solution, even if it does mean the pharmaceutical companies are profiting from my pain."

"I'm sorry?" Bethany was having trouble following his train of logic.

"Antihistamines," said the man. He looked at his watch. "I should get going."

"You'll give El my message?" said Bethany, because she didn't know what else to say. And then the man put Satchmo into his beaten up SUV and drove away, leaving her wondering if she was having a really weird dream. But Satchmo had gone, water bowl and kibble and vaccination records and all, and the woman in the painting—

"Mom?" called Gabe from the kitchen. "Does the banana go in before or after the flour?" And Bethany pulled herself together and went back to the kitchen, where her teenage son, a novel about time travelers and a bowl of mashed bananas awaited her.

 

**One week after that**

 

Mexico was humid and rife with mosquitoes. Mozzie kept the windows up and the air conditioner on full, and he still had to stop every couple of hours to give the dog a drink.

He didn't rush the journey—the ten grand that had mysteriously appeared in his bank account the same day the card arrived was more than enough to cover the SUV plus gas and accommodation, and Mozzie had a couple of days before the exhibition opening. He spent them driving, listening to language tapes and practicing his Spanish on the dog.

When he finally reached Zihuatanejo and pulled up at the address on the card, late one afternoon, there was nothing there but an empty lot across from the beach.

Moz glared at the space where the gallery should have been and got out of the car to stretch his legs and look around. He was alone with a dog in Mexico, his Spanish was unreliable and he was running low on antihistamine tablets. And if he'd misread the card or overlooked a coded message, he could be in the wrong _country_. What if the postmark was the real clue and he was supposed to go to Portugal?

"This is not an ideal situation," he told the cloudless blue sky.

Man, it was hot! His shirt was already sticking to his back, and the high-pitched whine of insects made him reach for the bug repellant. When he'd done covering himself in pesticide for the fourth time that day, he looked around again. The dog was gone.

"Satchmo," he called. "Here, boy!" There was a distant bark from the beach, and Mozzie went over. There were maybe two dozen people around, half of them obviously tourists, and the water was curling onto the sand in thin white frills.

No sign of Satchmo. Neal was going to kill him if he lost the dog.

More barking from up the beach. Mozzie followed the commotion, pausing when it registered that this beach, this exact spot was the beach from the painting on the card. So it was less of a surprise than it might have been to find Elizabeth Burke and Neal lounging on a picnic blanket, discarded poker hands and several small piles of shells between them, and Elizabeth engaged in a rapturous reunion with the dog.

"Oh, baby!" she said. "I missed you so much!" The dog responded by covering her with ecstatic drool, his tail wagging so hard it looked like it was going to come loose.

Neal was grinning. He looked tanned and completely at ease, and he stood up to greet Moz. "Hey, man. You made it. _¡Hola!_"

"Against my better judgment," said Mozzie, and slumped onto the corner of the blanket. "I need water."

Elizabeth detached from the dog long enough to hand him a water bottle. She was tanned too. It was like they'd evolved into a different race of humans: all sun-bleached hair and smug smiles. Maybe this was the Mexican equivalent of Stepford. Mozzie spared a longing thought for Manhattan.

"So, we have two musketeers, and I'm assuming the dog is d'Artagnan," he said, when he'd quenched his thirst. "Where's Athos?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Working. Come on, it's time we got back anyway."

They packed up their things and walked along the beach, with Mozzie relaying news of June and giving Bethany's note to Elizabeth. Neal and Elizabeth already knew that the investigation had been shelved, but Mozzie confirmed it. "You're officially Missing, Presumed Dead," he said. "Congratulations."

"We couldn't have done it without you," said Neal, clapping him on the shoulder. "Here we are."

It wasn't an art gallery at all. "Rick's Café Americano," Mozzie read out, from the front of the low-slung two-storey building.

"Kate's not the only one who loves the classics," said Neal, his eyes dancing. "Forget the three musketeers—Peter thinks he's Humphrey Bogart, despite this being a café and not a saloon full of desperate refugees."

"Okay, so you're Ilsa," said Mozzie to Elizabeth, as he followed her inside, noting the Closed sign on the door. Satchmo ran ahead, barking and deliriously excited about everything. Mozzie pointed at Neal. "But does that make you Laszlo or Renault?"

"Guess again," said Neal, going over to an upright piano in the corner, flipping the lid up and playing the first few bars of As Time Goes By with a flourish. Satchmo's barking turned into a howl, and Elizabeth hushed him and fussed over him, and then went behind the counter to make coffee, laughing as she went.

A minute later, a tall figure appeared in the doorway at the back of the café, and Satchmo ran over joyously. Mozzie stared.

The others had changed, but Peter Burke was nearly unrecognizable. He'd grown a beard, for starters, and was wearing shorts and a blue t-shirt. But it wasn't just that—his posture, his face, everything about him was relaxed and amused and contented. He crouched down to greet Satchmo, and then went to lean on the piano, twirling a pen between his fingers. Neal was still fooling around with the song, and Peter smiled down at him with unqualified affection.

Mozzie stopped wondering if the three of them had been drinking the Kool-Aid, and realized that this wasn't a reluctant retreat into exile after all. There was no indication that any of them wished to be anywhere but here.

"So, you're running a café that's closed all the time?" he said, once Peter had hugged him hello—hugged him!—and they were all sitting around a table with their espressos and large slices of extremely good peppermint chocolate cake.

Elizabeth grinned. "It's _el Primero de Mayo_," she said. "It's a holiday. We gave our chef the weekend off so she could recharge before _el Cinco de Mayo_—that's going to be huge."

"Café and gallery," said Neal, pointing to some paintings on the wall.

"Local artists," Mozzie hazarded. The paintings were a little garish for his taste, but they weren't bad. On the other hand, they were a far cry from any of the pictures Neal had appropriated or copied in his time. "You didn't paint those."

"Not those," said Neal, stretching lazily. "I'm working on some, though."

"Café, gallery, artist studio," said Mozzie. "What am I missing?"

"Writer's retreat," said Peter, looking briefly self-conscious. He put his hand on Neal's arm, and added, "Which reminds me, we need to figure out Umberto's escape plan. I've got him as far as the safe, but even if he cracks it without getting caught, he still has to smuggle the paintings out of the White House during a State dinner."

Neal nodded. "Later?"

"Sure." Peter caught Mozzie's puzzled glance. "It's a novel. It's nothing. Neal helps me figure out the logistics."

"It's a sequel," Elizabeth said firmly. She sipped her coffee and explained, "The first one's with an agent."

"Agents are good," said Mozzie. "Artist studio, writer's den. Anything else?"

Neal was obviously struggling to keep a straight face. "There's El's catering business, but that hasn't really taken off yet."

Elizabeth started giggling. "It sounds ridiculous when you list everything like that. Oh, and don't forget my long-term goal."

Neal's gravity collapsed, and Peter closed his eyes and shook his head, so that a glimpse of the old Peter Burke, long-suffering FBI agent, showed through.

"I think I'm missing the joke," Mozzie told the dog. "Long-term goal?"

"We have a barn out back," said Peter. "Elizabeth wants to convert it into a shooting range."

"I like to keep busy," said Elizabeth, calling Satchmo over and rubbing his ears. "It's not a crime."

"You like guns." Peter put down his coffee cup. "And you know it would bring in exactly the kind of clientele we're trying to avoid." It was obviously a well-worn exchange.

"We haven't ironed out the shooting range yet," Neal said, as an aside to Mozzie. "We will."

Mozzie looked around at the three of them. "You are all insane," he declared. "Including the dog. I should probably be wearing a face mask to avoid being infected with insanity particles." Then he sighed, and relented. "If you need help with papers or background checks at any point, let me know."

Neal grinned. "I knew we could count on you." He pushed back his chair. "Come on. Let's go and get your car, and then you can clean up for dinner." He kissed the top of Elizabeth's head and rested his hand on Peter's shoulder for a moment, and Moz felt an unexpected pang of envy. Maybe it was time he started looking around for someone to love, too. Someone to make a home with. But as soon as he and Neal went outside into the late—still uncomfortably warm—afternoon, the impulse was dwarfed by the far more pressing need to recount in detail the rigors of the drive down, including the hours waiting at the border, the customs officer who'd had issues with SUVs _and_ dogs, and Mozzie's own inability to find his favorite brand of toothpaste in the stores in this country. "Kate's fine, by the way," he said, as they crossed the road from the beach to his car. "I hear she moved to Portland."

If it was a test, Neal passed it with flying colors. "Good for her," he said, completely unmoved, and Mozzie filed that away, along with a nascent plan to perhaps visit Portland himself, sometime in the near future. Shared history was shared history.

And after all, _someone_ had to keep an eye on Kate.

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart by Wihluta [available here (NSFW)](http://wihluta.livejournal.com/295883.html).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Reasonable Doubt 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276772) by [Twilight_Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilight_Angel/pseuds/Twilight_Angel)




End file.
